


Soulbound

by Mistral83



Category: Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Development, Dark Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fancy Bastards, Fish out of Water, Fluff and Smut, Hedonism is obligatory for Druchii, Hero is kind of a douche and a world-class drama queen, Heroine also has the best luck, Heroine has the worst luck, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Magic, Major Character Death (Sort of), Mature Protagonist, Plot Twists, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, This is such a mixed bag, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 81,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistral83/pseuds/Mistral83
Summary: "Soul meets soul on lover's lips."What is a measure of a man? What is the measure of a dark elf, for that matter? A scholar who never had any aspirations towards adventure or great deeds is forced to face this question after several encounters with Druchii leave her life changed forever. Armed only with her wits and her education, she has to find a way to survive and preserve her identity.





	1. Hexensnacht

**Author's Note:**

> This story will eventually center around Dark Elves and their admittedly messed-up society as experienced from the viewpoint of the human protagonist. 
> 
> English is also my second language, so I would actually be thankful for any comments pointing out errors. This is a rewrite of a story that has been uploaded before. The story is set now in the early 2400s of the Imperial calendar, and while I have done my research, there are naturally a few gaps that I had to bridge. With these few artistic liberties taken, I have done my best to create an engaging, character-driven and thoughtful story faithful to its source material. I warn that it will be a slow burner, but I do promise Dark Elves in all their insanity steeped in sex and violence, a Black Ark in all its glory, quite a few plot twists, commentary on perception, all the feels and occasionally fun and games. Enjoy!

_Decades ago, Emperor Magnus the Pious after countless struggles, defeated the hordes of Chaos and heralded a new era for the Empire of Man in the heart of the Old World. What followed was a Golden Age of faith, of sorcery, of victory and science.   
  
__These times have faded. This is now a dark age, a sombre age, an age of regression, betrayal and despair. It is also an age of blood and sacrifice, the return of a King, of battles told and untold. From his throne in Altdorf reigns Emperor Leopold, first of his line, wielding the warhammer of the founder of his lands, Sigmar, as his badge of office. As always in times like these, great heroes rise to meet their enemies with cold steel, bravery and boldness.   
  
__This is no such story. This is not even a story about the Empire. This is a story about survival despite all odds, about battle both traditional and indirect, of love, and of staying true to oneself.   
_  
  
Witching Night – or Hexensnacht in Old Reikspiel – was the last night of the year, when the both full moons shone brightly and the dead grew so restless that they were prone to rise from their graves. It was one of two dangerous nights in the Empire’s calendar in which only the priests of Morr, the God of the Dead, dared to step outside to sombrely practice their rituals on graveyards and other places where the wind of death blew strongly.  
  
How unfortunate for any town if there is only one of those priests to call upon his god’s favour to stave off the forces of Chaos, as it so happened with Sturmhöhe, a small yet industrious town in the Imperial province of Nordland. In this coldest and one of the most foreboding of nights in the year, such a lone Morrian was standing in Yalene’s living room steadily descending into a state of anxiety and even mild panic.  
  
“Far be it from me to bother a respectable woman like you …” Tjorben Aldebrook tended to speak thrice as fast when nervous, which only added to the dramatic emphasis when he slightly raised his voice. “… but there’s a bloody GHOST in my garden and I need help nownowNOW!”  
  
“More haste, less speed.” Yalene managed to slip a soothing quality into her shout so that the Morrian could hear her while she worked in the kitchen. She understood his desire for resolving the matter, but she couldn’t help anybody if the apple pie in her oven would burn her house down in her absence. So she first had to fix her kitchen and then get her cloak. Besides, if Tjorben had wanted quick help instead of thorough help, he wouldn’t have knocked at the door of an infamously unhurried and unflappable scholar like her.  
  
“Well, it’s not your place that the ghost is thrashing!”  
  
“Five minutes won’t make a difference.”, Yalene countered, again taking care to sound calm and decisive as not to upset that poor boy while she walked into her living room, donning her heavy winter cloak. She exuded exalted serenity, which had the desired mildly calming effect on the frustrated Morrian. The priest was young, in his mid-twenties, his lanky frame barely filling out the ornate black robes of his profession. As it was customary for priests of Morr, he was clean-shaven, lending a boyish quality to his already round features. As it was customary for Nordlanders, he wore his light brown hair long, tied back in a strict, thin ponytail.  
  
“What, no third pair of stockings, not another underskirt? Thank every god and his mother!”, he growled as Yalene planted herself before him, an understanding smile on her face.  
  
“I am an old woman. It is my prerogative to be slow, be cold and wear as many stockings as I please.”  
  
“You are not that old. What was it again? 49?”  
  
Yalene chuckled. “Charmer. It’s 53, and we should look after your ghost. How a priest like you isn’t able to calm one spirit of the dead is beyond me.”  
  
Tjorben gritted his teeth. “It’s not that simple. Not with this ghost. Not tonight.”  
  
This was a legitimate point. Priests, after all, were the ultimate authority in regards to the boundaries of the miracles their were able to perform in the name of their deity; even more so, if the rituals that Tjorben had worked on all night, especially alone, were for some reason insufficient, he would know. Still, having a designated slayer of the undead feeling so helpless in the face of a ghost told her that the situation was indeed either bizarre, special or interesting. Possibly all of the above.  
Yalene looked over the room one final time. She could see the black mass that was her dog, Trantüte, huddled up in the back of her living room, producing a low whine as the door was opened. Apparently, the night was too ominous for a large breed of dog to set a paw outside.  
  
“Suit yourself.”, Yalene told Trantüte, opened the door and stepped outside, the Morrian at her heels.  
  
Biting cold greeted them both. For some, the winds of winter were a herald of Ulric’s grim favour. For others, a snow-covered ground was a grim symbol of the inevitable embrace of death. The whole world became quieter, more serene when snow muffled steps and voices, and when people huddled at their fires in their homes, safe from the cold. For Yalene, it was different; when she saw the world covered in a shroud of snow, she always felt oddly at peace.  
  
They both walked the silent, cobbled streets of the quaint little town of Sturmhöhe, snow crunching underfoot . Underneath the dim, flickering light and the starry sky, the narrow streets looked even more foreboding. Streets like these were common for communities as old as theirs, that had grown slowly but steadily over the centuries, new buildings being built seamlessly into the old style. Their town was large enough to employ nightwatches, but at this night, the only people daring to step outside were Morrian priests and those not fearing the evil eye of fate – like her. So their walk to the outskirts of town was a long and silent one, especially at a walk to the graveyard that would take half an hour if the streets were bustling with people, as they would normally do. At about three o’clock in the morning, Yalene could already see lights in the windows and shadows of people moving inside; the town had already woken, but even they couldn’t stand against the all-compassing silence.  
  
The winds of magic pertaining to death were potent on this night. It was said the restless dead tended to wander at Hexensnacht, bolstered by the chaos moon. This was visible to Yalene’s witchsight, as her vision was clouded by a faint, purple sheen, while the floating purple mist that she interpreted as Shyish, the wind of death, only grew more dense the closer they got the graveyard, commonly known as a garden of Morr or a Morracker. The portents of doom and destiny were also strong, swirling around at the edge of her vision. She should have been afraid of the sight itself; however, she had read those tiny hints within the winds of magic for all her life. Those forms of the wheel she was perceiving were hard to interpret, but she received the distinct impression that she was not to die tonight. These signs failed her only on the rarest of occasions – it stood to hope that this was not the case right now.  
  
As she set eyes on the garden of Morr. Between tombstones, shrouded by mist, snow and the purple and green winds, she saw a shape that looked like a young tree grown in a vaguely humanoid form. The bark itself oozed magic as if bleeding out of a thousand tiny cuts, its leafy hair was long, surrounded by a protective thicket that must have been grown spontaneously out of the snow. Behind her, she heard Tjorben inhaling sharply. Apparently, the situation had worsened, although the tree-like form was currently standing silent.  
  
“That’s … not a spirit of the dead, per se.”, Yalene whispered, awed and moderately concerned.  
  
“I don’t think so either, but it is still drawn to the dead. When I approached it, it attacked me with twigs and hissed something in a tongue I didn’t understand.”, he whispered back, while Yalene finally understood why it was her door he had knocked at. Commonly, ghosts could be reasoned with if they were not malicious and just tormented. Promising them to investigate their death and bring the responsible to justice was standard procedure, as this was the easiest and least violent way to put them to eternal rest. But a spirit of the dead not entirely fitting that category on human burial ground speaking an unknown language could mean that this thing was not at all human. So it made sense to consult the local scholar and linguist. It also made sense to suspect an elven spirit, especially since the Laurelorn Forest, a bastion of Wood Elves, or Eonir, as they called themselves, happened to be close.  
  
The Eonir were an odd folk, technically citizens of the Empire but in actuality their own people, their lands technically claimed by two provinces, Middenland and Nordland, but in actuality governing over their territory. Theirs was an isolated forest, and any unbidden intruders were shot on sight. In the rarest of cases, once a decade or so, when there was a larger incursion of greenskins, the elves could be bothered to coordinate with the surrounding provinces and Elector Counts. So there was a shaky peace between humans and elves in these parts, as well as a few treaties in place. Sturmhöhe was one of the closer settlements to the Laurelorn Forest and most townsfolk went a lifetime without ever setting sight on an elf. Both peoples kept their careful distance, and when any warning was issued, envoys were sent and bonfires were lit.  
  
There were rumours about the elves bringing trees to life to fight beside them, that they employed a variety of wood sprites and other spirits. Was this creature one of them? To Yalene’s magic senses, it felt strange, as if not in tune with reality. Currently, it was not moving, which was odd, since it had been clearly upset by the presence of a lone priest of Morr.  
  
There was no sense in dallying, so Yalene stepped forward, slowly, carefully, as not to upset the woodland creature. Suddenly and not entirely surprisingly, the snow around her was erupting with numerous living roots, springing out as quickly and deadly as snakes in the grass. Yalene froze in her movements, but those roots stopped before hitting her, as if they were living beings that tried to pick up her scent. She felt panic rising when she realized that more roots were entangling her, crawling up her legs, seizing every limb, then rapping themselves tightly around her body and face, pushing the air out of her lungs; the sounds that Tjorben made behind her informed her that he had fallen for the same trap.  
  
It took all of her discipline and self-control not to hyperventilate, even though a thoroughly undignified shriek escaped her as she felt the grip of that thing tightening, as if it wanted to to squash her like one would kill an ant in ones fist. Even so, she realized that she had now the one and possibly only and last chance to address the spirit, to reason with it in order to get herself released. So she did in Eltharin, wasting no time with greetings that the wood creature would probably not appreciate.  
  
“What do you want, spirit?”  
  
Her voice was shaky and high-pitched, but she was positive that she was correct in her pronunciation of this difficult language. There was a tense moment of silence that lasted for several long heartbeats in which the creature seemed to consider her words before replying, the pressure of the roots eased ever so slightly.  
  
“Yooooouuuu arrreeeee nooooooot aaaaa daaaaaaark ooooonnnneee …”  
  
Its voice vibrated within her body and her very soul; it was at the edge of being painful, like standing beside ringing bells the size of an average human, lacking the sheer volume of such. Despite the forceful and almost painful effect, the voice was only as loud as a whisper. This spirit operated on another level of existence, beyond the living and the dead, within the laws that only forces of nature had to obey. When being asked if she was a ‘dark one’, Yalene determined that it was best to deny this, even though she did not understand the question.  
  
“No, I am a seeker of knowledge.” She replied hopefully. “Tell me how I can help you.”  
  
Again, the spirit seemed to consider her words carefully, its unearthly amber eyes piercing through all her layers of cloth, flesh and mind, as if stripping her bare to her very soul. Only after a thorough examination, the woodland creature answered in the same, painful way, as if her eardrums were pierced.  
  
“Huuuumaaaaaaan …?”  
  
“Yes. I am Yalene Hoffman, citizen of the Empire of Man. If it is in my power to bring you peace, I shall. Please tell me how.”  
  
In hindsight, the wording was rather unfortunate, as if it were an invitation towards more mayhem caused on this garden of Morr, not to mention pressing the life out of both of those pesky humans. Tjorben had picked up on this as well, as she could hear him clearing his throat. They both waited in tense anticipation if the reaction of the spirit would be defined by concession or aggression. At last, the spirit seemed to have come to a decision.  
  
“Brrrrriiiiinggg meeeeee hoooooomeeeee …”  
  
Even in its alien appearance and demeanour, there was now a very human longing in its voice, making it clear that it was desperately pleading. Its plight, the desperation behind it would have made the coldest heart melt with compassion.  
  
It was so lost. Pity those who are lost, always.  
  
“As Verena is my witness, I shall bring you home.”, she replied to the spirit, knowing that a vow like this was not to be broken. Invoking the name of the goddess of justice was oddly soothing and strengthened her enough to sound wholeheartedly sincere, instead of the shrill, stuttering mess she had been a moment ago.  
  
“Hoooooomeeeee …” Its last word faded as the roots crumbled into dust, leaving Yalene and Tjorben to greedily gasp for air and relieved that this situation had resolved comparatively peacefully, and aside from a few scratches and a few tears in their clothes, they were fine. The sprite, however, had shrunk further and further into a glowing, walnut-sized kernel. The transformation seemed so unreal for such a short interaction and left Yalene as well as Tjorben completely flabbergasted. As the glowing kernel fell into the snow, melting any and all ice within its path and after a moment of stunned silence, they exchanged looks. Yalene was the first to overcome her initial shock.  
  
“That was not as bracing as feared.”, she finally stated in what she hoped was matter-of-factly.  
  
Tjorben gave her an incredulous look, then shook his head. “No idea what you two were talking about … ”, he tried to keep the same tone, but his underlying anxiety bled through rather spectacularly. “ … but you just talked a tree into turning into a nut. That seems like a prime example of diplomacy for me.” He then paused for a moment, then added in a deadpan tone. “I think I’ve peed my pants.”

  
*

  
Silently, Yalene poured two cups of brandy to celebrate a strange situation survived while Tjorben let himself fall on her couch. Part of his pants and cloak had been torn, while two scratches now graced his forehead and nose. He was lucky in that regard, as she had a painful scratch on her ear that hadn’t decided to stop bleeding yet. They both looked like scarecrows; still, they were safe, sound and in her home, and had both determined that at about after four o’clock in the morning, an ordeal like this justified the consumption of some hard liquor.  
  
“You say the darndest things sometimes.”, Tjorben replied, leaning back in Yalene’s favourite armchair after taking a swig of said brandy. “So let me get this straight … you promised that thing that you will get it into the Laurelorn Forest, which, as we all know, is filled with trigger-happy elves.”  
  
“Correct.”, Yalene replied more nonchalantly than she had intended.  
  
“And despite the danger for life, limb and pants, you want to do this tomorrow night?”  
  
“Which technically is tonight, but yes.”  
  
Tjorben shook his head. “What exactly makes you think that you will survive this trip?”  
  
“I simply … hope?” Yalene smiled. In truth, she was not certain at all and would consult the stars and any omen she could find before her trip, but as far as she could see, there was only a great change coming, but not something catastrophic. Since the winds had turned, she had assumed that the weather would be changing dramatically soon. That, however, was something that she could mention to Tjorben, the young man she was friendly with, but not Father Aldebrook, the resident priest of Morr. Unfortunately, one could not be parted from the other. Besides, Morr was also the god granting prophetic dreams to his followers. If something absolutely sinister was afoot, the priest would know better than her.  
  
She sighed, adding to her former statement. “I do not think that this trip is that dangerous. Greenskins rarely roam the forests in winter, which makes me think that they freeze as much as we do. As for the elves … I’ve had dealings with them before. Besides, they usually give at least the courtesy of a warning shot if they suspect a local wanderer. As long as I am given the opportunity to explain myself, I should be fine.”  
  
“Very funny. I’m coming with you tomorrow, right after the Dooming.”  
  
She tilted her head. “I thought this doesn’t concern you?”  
  
“It does!”, he said emphatically. “It is a spirit of the dead in need of shepherding. She might not be human, but she went to _my_ garden under _my_ watch. So I can’t turn my back and call myself a servant of Morr.” He paused, only to add more sheepishly. “At least, I think it is a spirit of the dead. It feels like it … what do you think?”  
  
Yalene put her brandy aside and pulled the nut-sized object out of her apron that the spirit had left. It glowed ever so softly and was pleasantly warm to touch. Magic swirled around it, but it was also something deeply natural now, something that felt foreign and familiar at the same time. She pondered for a moment, regarding that spirit walnut in her hand.  
  
“I’ve read that the elves face oblivion when they die and that their souls are devoured by the ruinous powers. Even if by some miracle they reach their afterlife, it is eternal torture, not eternal rest.” Her tone was sombre as she recounted the hints the tales that her teacher of Eltharin had told her so many years ago. “To circumvent this fate, the High Elves store parts of their souls in waystones, while the Wood Elves store it in trees. When an elf dies, his soul returns to this waystone or tree to act as a guardian for their home.”  
  
The Morrian frowned. “That seems so wrong to me. And you think that this seed there is an elven soul? What was she doing outside of her home?”  
  
“How am I supposed to know?”  
  
“Fair point. But what about Sea Elves? Dark Elves?”  
  
Yalene tucked the spirit walnut away and started sipping her brandy. “As far as I understand it, Sea Elves are not their own people per se. They technically belong to the High Elves, or so I’ve been told. Dark Elves, however …” Her voice trailed off and she spoke in a lower tone, as if she feared that they could be overheard. This happened with good reason, because the powers that she referenced brought ill when spoken about aloud. “… a part of them openly worships the ruinous powers. They are either unconcerned with their afterlife or welcome their eventual fate.”  
  
She could see that this seemed alien to Tjorben, as it should be. As a priest of Morr, his first and foremost duty was the burial of a human body and the guiding of the human souls into Morr’s embrace. The thought that other races were not concerned with their soul, their afterlife, was contrary to all that he believed in. He disapproved quite obviously, but what could one do? The elves didn’t worship Morr, so they didn’t get saved by Morr. That was the way of things.  
  
“Tjorben?”, she tentatively asked after a long, ponderous pause.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“What is a soul? Why is a human one different than an elven one?”  
  
In all the literature regarding that topic she had ever read, any research she had ever done, she had never found a satisfying answer to that question. She had discussed this topic with other scholars, with Verenans, Morrians … none had been able to reach some sort of definite conclusion why the souls of different races were treated differently. Most priests pointed out that worship of the gods was the reason why humans would rest more easily, but could not answer why the elven counterpart of Morr didn’t possess the same power. Tjorben’s mother, the former priestess of Morr in Sturmhöhe, had been of the staunch opinion that the elven gods did not exist and that just about everybody should convert to the human faith. That was quite progressive thinking on her part.  
As Verena was the goddess of law and justice, but more importantly knowledge, science and civilization, her followers were drawn to free thinking – therefore theses among them varied wildly, but most admitted that they had too little information to form a theory and they would need an elven, dwarven and halfling perspective before entertaining any sort of conclusion. Yalene followed the Verenan approach in this matter, but she wanted to know what a young priest of Morr like Tjorben would have to say.  
  
The Morrian before her however just chugging down the last of his brandy, afterwards shaking his head. “Sorry, ma’am. Whatever knowledge I have is yours, but after what I’ve seen tonight … I wonder if I know too little, or if I know too much. After all, Morr is the god of the dead, not the god of death.”  
  
Oh, she just got ma’amed. Tjorben was now speaking with the authority as the priest that he was, a fact that he sometimes needed to be reminded of. “A soul is the breath of the gods. That’s what I’ve been taught, that’s what I know to be true. So that’s all I can say.”  
  
This was not exactly what she had hoped for, but it was an opinion, for which she was thankful, respectfully inclining her head and wisely keeping her own counsel. This concluded the conversation, so Tjorben put his cup down.  
  
“Time to dislodge yourself from my excellent hospitality? That seems fair.”, Yalene grinned, and if the Morrian wanted to answer something witty, it tragically got stuck in the wheels of politeness he was just remembering. In the end, he wished her a good morning, took his cloak and left him for some much-needed rest, leaving Yalene with the remnants of Witching Night.  
  
Hexensnacht was the night of the dead, whether they were walking or resting. As it was customary, Yalene had renewed her family shrine in her home and now paused at it to reflect one final time. The heavy commode she had reserved for this duty was crowned by an ornate, stained ebony mirror that had been in her maternal family’s possession for generations. Now, it was presiding over the ritualistic gifts she had made for her deceased loved ones, which would be burnt and the ashes sprinkled on the respective graves the next day by Tjorben in his function as Father Aldebrook.  
  
For her grandmother, she had had knitted a pair of socks which she knew said granny would snicker about, while the grandfather she knew nothing about had to content himself with a cap knitted from the same wool. Her mother, ever the sweet-tooth, had been served the first slice of the first apple pie that she had baked tonight. As per his express wish, her father received the first branch of hazelnuts that Yalene had gotten her hands on earlier in spring, referencing a fairy tale the father had loved above all others. Both she and her younger sister, Marleen, had always been fond of lavender, so every year, she dried lavender leaves from her own garden in her favourite books to sprinkle those on the little sister’s grave. To this day, it was still painful to recall that Marleen had not even lived to see age twenty. For the little nephew that had died with his mother, Yalene usually whittled a small toy, oftentimes in the form of an animal. This year, the unnamed nephew was gifted coloured marbles.  
  
Loss was an experience for every human being, past, present and future. One could not live life to the fullest without losing someone dear to separation, distance, alienation or death. Philosophers of all ages had pondered over the pain of loss with differing conclusions; some nihilistic and pessimistic in their view that all living things must end, others celebrating the influence of those long gone on the current lives as the defining factors of a personality. For Yalene, the truth was somewhere in the middle, as it was with all things mortal: Those that accompanied her on her path were never truly dead as long as she remembered them. Her life had been richer thanks to them, and therefore, they were a part of her. She mourned the loss of her loved ones still, but these were wounds well-healed at this point.  
  
When she looked at her family shrine, she had to admit that she was exceedingly fortunate. In this town, she was known as a walking lucky charm, a night like this bearing testimony and evidence to this fact. The tragedy that had befallen her poor sister had been the last one to her family in three decades. Her two remaining brothers were still alive, one being a successful captain in the Imperial navy, the other being a prosperous trader in Dietershafen. Their families were thriving, so she had nieces and nephews aplenty. She shouldn’t play favourites, but her favourite nephew, Jeldrik, even lived in Sturmhöhe with his family. His first daughter, her grandniece, had been born two years ago and was now an adorable terror of a toddler with a little sibling on the way.  
  
The townspeople, even most of her friends and family simply thought of her to be fortune’s darling, favoured by Ranald and any other deity granting good luck. There was no denying that she was lucky. Not pretty, perhaps, but lucky and happy. Unlike most women, she had been financially secure enough to have the luxury of an existence of an unmarried woman, independent in her craft and finances due to inheritance, education and often sought skills as a scribe and interpreter. All her life, she had wanted nothing more than to be independent, and now that she had reached the autumn of her life, she was blissfully free of the shackles of marriage, had cultivated deep and lasting friendships, her surviving kin was loving and flourishing and she herself was a seeker and guardian of knowledge by trade. Even the plants in her garden were greener and healthier, and whenever there was a game of chance, she usually won it. Her neighbours and friends called it obscenely good fortune. She called it careful planning, smart budgeting, dedication and a small amount of reading portents and omens in the stars. It was almost a science.  
  
There was an emphasis to be put on the word ‘almost’. It had been her father who had taught her rituals and spells to interpret the omens in stars and nature; that he had done so in a scientific manner to ensure that she practised her craft safely had led her to suspect that he had been a runaway mage from the Colleges of Magic; the man himself had kept silent about his past, so a secret it remained. She was smart enough to never let anybody see her cast a spell, never called a charm for what it was, and was always conveniently absent when one of those fanatical Witch Hunters happened to pass through town.  
  
She concluded her prayer for most treasured departed with a ritualistic gesture almost unthinkingly, letting her open palm slide over her face, thus imitating Morr’s Shroud as a fond wish that they had found their way into Morr’s halls peacefully. When she opened her eyes, she looked into the mirror, the family heirloom. The stained glass showed her visage, gaunt and long-faced, that had aged as it was proper, the lines on her face designating a woman who had smiled often in her life and had laughed heartily. Nobody would have been so unkind as to call her a beauty, be it in her youth or even ten or twenty years ago, her face being too long and her nose too large to be even considered towards traditional attractiveness.  
  
Her face was covered in faded pockmarks, the only serious illness she had ever had to survive, while her body shape was more akin to a slender man than a woman. The only thing beautiful about her were her eyes, coloured in a light grey that depending on the lighting could be mistaken for light blue or even a pale violet. Yalene was also proud of her hair, which with age had thinned considerably, yet still maintained its wiry and sturdy quality, two straw-blonde braids reaching towards her hips. There was much more grey than blonde in those braids nowadays, of course. Age also came with a side of painful joints and stomach ache, but all in all, she was more content with being old and established in her independent life than being young and frowned upon.  
  
To her utter surprise, she saw her own reflection turn into the one of a man, one that bore a striking resemblance to her, with grey eyes like her own, large ears and stark features. As she had seen her father on his deathbed, he appeared to her now, mouthing only three words, fading as the first light of dawn drew nearer.  
  
“Take my grimoire.”  
  
His words echoed as the apparition abruptly vanished, his reflection turned into hers as if he were merely a thought gone astray, and it still shook Yalene to the core. It was to be expected that the ghosts of the dead made an appearance on Witching Night, but a warning this clear was unusual indeed. She had hidden her father’s grimoire for fear of discovery and subsequent burning at the stake, but she knew better than to let that kind of apparition go to waste. She hadn’t looked into the grimoire in years, as she knew the few rituals used in her day-to-day-life by heart. Given the warning, there was no time to waste to retrieve that grimoire at once and reacquaint herself with its contents. Perhaps that journey she was planning this evening was more important and dangerous than she had thought.


	2. The Dooming

When she looked at the serene snowy landscape spreading out before her, she just knew that it was a dream. There were no streets, no trees, just an endless amount of starry night sky and dancing snowflakes, while the moon Mannslieb shone brightly, with Morrslieb, the cursed moon, having waned only to a crescent sliver. ‘_That’s not right._’, she thought to herself looking at the sky. ‘_That is not tonight’s sky. This is the sky for different eyes, for another night, past or future … _’. While she was acutely aware due to her studies that the stellar constellations did not align with the current date, she did recognize that she was unusually aware of that fact for a usual dream. One was rarely that lucid during a dream that one could recount the current date, so she concluded that this was some sort of prophetic dream, one that was not uncommon for Witching night, even if it was a short nap in the wee hours in the morning. Therefore, there was only a modicum of reason to panic, which was why Yalene decided against it.  
  
Knowing that much, she watched with somewhat amused curiosity as the ground and the snowflakes dissolved, leaving her floating in the endless night stepping between stars, some close, some far, some pale, some bright.  
  
She watched as the stars formed into the shape of an island shrouded in eternal mists, its shores calling her to return again and again. There was a sense of destiny there, a call that was at the same time loud as a thunderclap and soft as the ringing of a silver bell that seemed to seep into her very soul.  
  
Then, a small, goat-like creature materialized before her, its horns delicate like silvery twigs, its eyes blue like the eyes of a newborn. The dream-goat hiccuped, some sort of bubbles leaving its mouth that reflected some dreams, wishes and emotions that Yalene could not quite perceive. However, she thought that if this was how a drug trip looked like, she ought to have tried something like this already. It was never too late, she mused as she watched that adorable dream-goat smile and hopping away into the star sign of the Dancer. Yalene gave it a little wave as it bid its farewell.  
  
The playful strands of the brightest light she had ever seen made her weep because she could barely fathom its beauty. Yet she was not embraced by that light, but rather by something far more earthbound; it made her heart glow with joy and sorrow.  
  
It lasted only for the a heartbeat, then she felt herself fall apart into dozens of pieces, was yanked back painfully, as if she had been in free fall, only to discover that she had been tied to an unmoving anchor. Being torn apart like this was the most curious sensation, one that was so terrifying in its inevitableness that the pain that followed thereafter seemed like a relief. It was excruciating pain that gathered itself within her right hand, deeper than skin, beyond flesh and bone.  
  
That would all be disconcerting enough if she didn’t feel somebody slobber over her face, and it took only a moment for Yalene to realize that this was the only thing tied to reality, and that her dream fled her mind. When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her couch, buried under a large tome and a dog, her heart racing and her skin feeling cold and clammy. The heavy monstrosity bending over her and licking her face was none other than her large mutt with a face like a good-natured bear, made of fluffy fur, loyalty, kindness and cowardice. Apparently, Trantüte had been sensing her mistress tossing and turning during her nap and had decided to wake her up, which Yalene was thankful for.  
  
With unsteady hands and feeling awfully drained, she petted Trantüte and gently pushed her away, so that she could sit up, carefully place the tome on the table before her to gather her thoughts.  
  
What a remarkably and admittedly alarming experience. In fact, she still felt herself trembling. Usually, even bad dreams would fade in the moment of awakening, but this one stayed with all the gory details it entailed. The feeling of being pulled apart had been worse than any dream or even imagination of death. Death was complex, but said and believed to be only rest and remembrance. What she had felt was as a nothingness, a kind of place that the word ‘oblivion’ was made for, although she had never truly grasped the sheer meaning of this word before this moment. The small glimpse alone had been so frightening, she couldn’t imagine the despair of actually living it.  
  
When she looked out of the window, she saw the snow-covered rooftops of her neighbours bathed in the golden light after dawn. It was already New Year’s day, having defeated the night that was so important to Morr, in which people dreamed of things to come in the following year. That in itself was not unusual, but she hadn’t dreamed of death, but something far more terrifying.  
  
She heard the steady thumping of Trantüte wagging her tail against the wall as the dog sat on the ground like the well-behaved girl she was, looking at her mistress attentively. Yalene almost scoffed, but it was hard to scoff at what looked like a stuffed animal the size of a calf. This dog had only been with her for a year and was basically still a puppy, but its presence soothed her and kept her mind away from that terrible nightmare and what it would mean. Since she felt too upset to go back to napping, she determined to at least do something useful and rose to go wash herself, then get dressed. That dog drool should not be given an opportunity to dry.  
  
Yalene’s house was cosy, if constructed in a needlessly complex fashion, with many twists and turns and small rooms that made her humble abode a small labyrinth filled with precious wonders that were scrolls and books. Despite the great recent invention of book print, a lot of her own personal library still consisted of artfully illuminated books that were not only far more durable in being actually bound, not glued, but priced as works of art. Even books themselves, or so she had been told, had been a recent innovation. Three generations ago, scrolls had been the norm, but the founding of the colleges of magic a century ago caused a solely needed revolution of the way knowledge was stored. Afterwards, it had been just a matter of time until an inventive Middenlander got tired of straining his hands, cut a few blocks of wood into shape and smeared them with ink to inadvertently create the best thing since plumbing. What a fascinating modern age they were living in that allowed for everybody to have knowledge in the form of books at their fingertips for reasonable prices. Now the vast majority of the populace just needed to learn to read.  
  
After her morning routine that made her and her dog not only presentable for the world, but also less irritated because of the timely intake of breakfast, she let Trantüte out to play in the snow to return to her reading, formerly hidden under a floor panel in her study. Her father’s grimoire had been bound in inconspicuous brown leather and given a title indicating a book about astronomy. It looked thoroughly ordinary at the first, second and third glance, unless one was schooled in things arcane or the language that College mages used. After the dire warning she had received, Yalene had spent the rest of the night that she had not been napping skimming through the pages, surprised at the sheer amount she had forgotten. Her skills didn’t exactly lay dormant, but she used them in a very specific and subtle way … but there was so much more a real mage could do. Her interest had been especially piqued by the possibility of creating a protective sheen around the skin, or dispelling the winds of magic altogether. Once, she had known all of this, but she was optimistic that, if given time, she could use that knowledge again to her advantage.  
  
She had spent hours on her reading and was ready to leave for the festival, when suddenly, her door flew open and none other than a youth in dire trouble stood crying at her doorstep.  
Finja was the only daughter of her dear friends, friendly healers, both of them. That young girl had grown into an impressive and confident youth, with lustrous auburn her like her father used to have and a beautiful face like her mother’s. But now, that poor girl was just a shadow of her usually witty self, with reddened eyes from crying, and she hadn’t even pinned up or braided her hair, which now hung loose around her shoulders, making her look even more dishevelled.  
  
“Aaaaw, poor sweetheart, look at you.” Yalene cooed and hugged that girl, knowing fully well that teenage drama was afoot and that it was best to meet it with compassion, patience and an open ear. “Let’s get you some tea and see what we can do for you, shall we?” Finja nodded against her shoulder, and then wordlessly pulled away and let herself slump on the couch. The dog would have been nice to comfort the young girl, but of course, in times of trouble, Trantüte was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Finja and her were not related by blood, but her parents and Yalene were often guests in their respective houses. In fact, there was a clause in Arnwald’s and Wiebke’s will that, should they both for some reason not be able to care for their child, this duty would fall to Yalene. Over the years, the scholar had performed several duties that would normally fall to an aunt or a grandmother, like changing diapers or giving the bottle to baby Finja, or looking after her in their parent’s rare absences when she grew older. She had also done the most precious service to any parent with a newborn, which was what all friends should do with new parents: bringing them food and cleaning their kitchen.  
  
But today, her role required some emergency-soothing.  
  
Finja was sitting on the couch like a little deadhead primrose and looked at her with those large, innocent blue eyes that could make anybody melt with sympathy. Tears welled up her eyes again and as soon as Yalene closed the door behind her, she blurted out. “He’s going to leave me!”  
  
No surprise there. Yalene had been instantly suspicious of that lout that had been courting her dear girl, but she had been wise enough not to counsel against him and just let the matter run its course as far as she could, merely injecting herself to help with avoiding any more permanent consequences, like pregnancy. _‘Called it’_, she thought to herself, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction of being right under the compassion and the bleeding heart at the sight of seeing a beloved person so crushed and heartbroken. For that alone, that boy deserved a beating.  
  
So Yalene did the best thing she could think of, by first preparing the kettle and making some tea, since there was no way she would rush misery. After having put two cups of tea before them both, she sat next to Finja and offered her shoulder to let the tears and words flow. And they flowed in abundance, as the girl kept rambling. “He said that I was looking at one of the guys, and that I should not talk to him. I’m his girl, he said. I shouldn’t be talking to other guys. I don't even know which one he was talking about! And then ...” Her voice now reached what “… and then he said that he has been so nice to me and that he sacrificed so much just for me, and that I’m ungrateful. I’m not! I tried to support him. It’s been so rough for him with his work, but he wouldn’t listen ...” Apparently, there was more, but her voice faltered, denying service while her tears flowed.  
  
This was the moment when Yalene looked her straight in the eye, full of compassion, kept her voice as gentle as possible. “He said he left you?”  
  
Tears welled up again as the girl. “I can’t come to the festival today. I can’t! He will be there, and … and ...” Her eyes became unfocused as she searched for answers. “If I could just apologize, if he would just _listen_ to me ...”  
  
“There, there.” Yalene attempted to soothe that inconsolable girl again, with limited success. But that was the moment when she let her tone become a little firmer. “Maybe it’s time to respect his wishes. He left you, after all …”  
  
Unfortunately, every teenager ever been in existence was prone to see the own feelings as the most glorious, the most earth-shattering emotions ever to have been felt by anyone, their love a flame, nay, an inferno for eternity, their grief the abyss that swallowed the world. She remembered how hard it had been to deal with those emotions as a young girl herself, and now she saw that lovely girl go through the same.  
  
Predictably, Finja started to get defensive. “You know nothing about love! You never married, you’ve never had a man. How can you say this?”  
  
Not fazed in the slightest, she put up an air of exalted serenity while she kept her voice gentle and understanding. “No, I never married, but I do know love.” Cupping the chin of the girl, she slightly lifted it to look Finja in the eye. “I love you, and I know that you are unhappy. But you are a smart young lady; you know what you are worth and how you want to be treated. And don’t you worry about the festival today. You will just dry your tears, you will wear the green dress and you will look absolutely radiant and enjoy yourself. See for yourself where this leads.”  
  
“That’s really nice, Auntie, but you still know nothing about real love, love-love, love for a man, romance-love …”  
  
That made Yalene chuckle softly. “Haven’t your parents told you the story already?”  
  
Again, those blue eyes widened as the girl enquired a touch too eagerly. “Which story?”  
  
Yalene sighed deeply and reclined on her couch, staring more at the ceiling than her interlocutor when she recalled that particular memory. “The story about my almost-marriage.”  
  
She felt how Finja perked up in interest and curiosity. That feeling was sudden as well as a welcome change of pace, and if it dried her tears and entertained her enough, what was the harm in telling her? Again, Yalene sighed resignedly and then recounted that tale that she had been mocked about all her life.  
  
“Imagine the following scene: Me, 17 years old, about to leave for university and terribly smug about it. I really had the worst smart mouth back in the day, but for some reason, this was an appealing trait for Sören Kruse. You know Fynn Kruse, the Forest Warden? They’re cousins.”  
  
The youth frowned. “I’ve never heard of Sören Kruse.”  
  
Yalene waved her hand dismissively. “Keep listening, and you’ll know why. So this strapping young lad has been chatting with me occasionally about some town gossip, about his prowess as a hunter and how creative and romantic my insults were. At the celebration of Sonnstill the whole town goes nuts, which is the reason why I have the best birthdays.” She fell into a dreamy sing-song as she recounted that day which, to a certain point, had been quite lovely. “Everybody was adorned with flowers in their hair, there was bad music, a lot of drinking, even more dancing and the charming odour of aged cheese from those Loerk-despising bumpkins presenting their bare feet to everybody passing by.” Those were old, humourless men and women who rubbed their feet with toads in summer in hopes that their feet would sprout as many warts as possible to show their disdain towards Loerk, god of dance. Loerk for his part reportedly showed disfavour to joyless, tragically danceless people by cursing their feet with warts. Usually, when Yalene greeted them at every festival, she mostly heard slightly confrontational grunts. Adorable company, all of them.  
  
“Along comes Sören, grinning from ear to ear. At the height of the festival and alcohol-induced jolliness, he goes down on his knees and asks if I would marry him in front of everybody.”  
  
“Isn’t that kind of sweet?”  
  
“You seem to be confused, my dear girl, because proposals should never be a surprise. I think he knew I would need time to agree, time he didn’t want to invest. So I laughed him off in front of the whole crowd and was stuck with the reputation of being cruel for decades. Sören, his pride shattered, left town and joined the Longshanks, some sort of Forest Warden Order who vow to never stay at one place for more than a week.”  
  
Finja frowned, not quite succeeding as the skin on her forehead was too young to wrinkle properly. “I know that you preach self-sufficiency all the time, but that was kind of cruel, Auntie. Did you really have to laugh at him in front of the whole crowd?”  
  
All Yalene could do was to smile warmly, waving her hand dismissively. “Yes, I should have handled that more diplomatically. I was a different and more spiteful woman back then. Ever since I have learned not to judge people and listen to them carefully; it’s how I always get the juiciest gossip in town. But whatever I might have done or not done to him, I was right to refuse him. He shouldn’t have put that pressure on me.”  
  
“Did you love him?”  
  
That was a difficult question, one that Yalene could only answer after exhaling deeply. “I … don’t remember.” As much as she searched her feelings, she couldn’t say, even if her life depended on her. It had been so many years since that day, and she had had so many complicated feelings towards love, marriage and her own achievements or the lack of it in that regard, that she really could not say. Finja seemed to sense that the conversation was at its natural end, and showed wisdom beyond her years in letting this matter rest, leading to a long, pensive and strangely comfortable pause.”But if it was love, then this taught me that love is not enough.”  
  
Finja did not seem entirely convinced. “Are you sure? It seems to me that love is enough. It has to be.”  
  
“I am too clever to contest that.” Yalene replied in good humour. She begged to disagree, but there was no sense in doing so. A young girl like Finja had to make her own experiences, and would could not be dragged towards enlightenment. One could give gentle pushes and hints, but in the end, she had to walk that path on her own. So it was time to change the subject. “By the way ...”, she said conversationally. “… what happened to the pendant I gave you?”  
  
“The one that is definitely _not_ a charm against pregnancy that you gifted to me as soon as I started seeing him?” This time, the girl turned around to face her confidante, her eyes dried and still red, but her expression glowing with quiet and at the same time fierce determination. “With that Witch Hunter in town, I hid it in the garden. Nobody will ever find out from me.”  
  
This time, it was Yalene’s heart that sank while she felt the spirit walnut in her pocket, as the possession of this thing alone could put her on a pyre. What was a Witch Hunter doing in the middle of winter, right here? Was he searching for demons in apple pies that would be served at a celebration? There was the vain hope that the Witch Hunter that Finja so skilfully had mentioned was only passing through. In any case, she would only make a token appearance at the festival and take her father’s grimoire with her, to make certain that when she left town, nobody could find something suspicious in her belongings. She smiled thankfully at Finja, proud of the girl for thinking on her feet, and silently sipped her tea.  
  
Before dusk, when she left her home balancing two apple pies on one arm, she spotted a good friend of hers on the street and called out to him. Arnwald, a white-robed Shallyan healer, was a mild-mannered and pleasant middle-aged man who had barely a hair left on his head, his white beard carefully trimmed. He was currently carrying a large, heavy pot on his own and smiled thankfully when Yalene rushed to his aid.  
  
“For the poorhouse?”, she enquired while lifting one handle of the pot. How she managed to do so without dropping anything was a mystery to her.  
  
Arnwald nodded amicably. “This evening, it’s on me to feed the poor. We have two women in labour in the temple. So the man gets thrown out.”  
  
Understandably so. While Arnwald and his wife Wiebke both belonged to the temple of Shallya and were thus well-versed in treating sickness and common injury in addition to their primary duties of assisting with birth and caring for the dying, most women giving birth were understandably reluctant to accept a man’s expertise when they were at their most vulnerable. The worship of Shallya, the goddess of Healing and Mercy, was very much a female domain, yet a well-respected one. Their temples doubled as hospitals for most injuries, and only the rich or desperate would need the services of a true physician, who had to be regularly called from Salzenmund.  
  
“Baxter Anke should be due any minute now.” The Shallyan started to ramble to distract himself from the heaviness of the soup pot and conveniently provided Yalene with gossip. “Goodman Wilke, Enno Haiermann, Lovis Bergström and Berit Kleijn died last night. Old age and weak hearts, all of them. Plus, Old Volker was found frozen solid in the western woods. He’s still thawing. Don’t know if the undertaker will wait much longer, but people will wag their tongues about this, especially with the Witch Hunter having an interest in this case.”  
  
Peculiar. For one night, this was an awful lot of deaths, even for a town like theirs. Usually, this would be Morr’s bill within a week of a lean, yet uncatastrophic winter. The last Witching night this deadly had been 23 years ago, with actual undead rising from unsanctioned graves. To this day, that particular Hexensnacht had not been talked about if absolutely necessary, the townsfolk being careful to purge that memory from their minds. But last night, old age and disease had been as deadly as zombies. That the dreaded Witch Hunter that she was now warned about again was investigating told her that there might be more to this story. On cue, she thought that she might be feeling a peculiar warmth in her apron where the spirit walnut still rested.  
  
She was however not surprised that Old Volker had met his demise; he had always been odd, muttering darkly to himself and seeing shadows when there were none. Without any family left to care for him and the patience of friendly neighbours exhausted, it had only been a matter of time, as cold as it sounded. Still, this had just been a poor, old, confused and frightened man. He didn’t deserve to die like he did.  
  
“I heard Finja visited you? Is she alright?”, Arnwald asked, now groaning under the weight of the pot, a chorus that Yalene joined.  
  
“She will be in time. Heartbreak hurts, but we all heal. Eventually. Sent her celebrating with Trantüte. Can you take my dog for a few days? I’m going on a trip with Leevke and Tjorben. We’ll be back in about four days if things go smoothly.” Leevke was the resident priestess of Verena and one of her dearest friends, so she had approached the woman with the clear knowledge that she would jump to the chance. In truth, Leevke would have probably complained if she had not been asked at all.  
  
Arnwald made an affirmative and vaguely enthusiastic grunt as the two of them arrived at the crowded marketplace and they had to put down the pot of soup so that Yalene could rebalance her pies on her arms. As it was tradition for this province, the first day of the new year was the day when the townsfolk would gather at dusk to lead the children roughly around age ten to their Dooming, a premonition made by the local priest of Morr about the nature of their death. Every child in the Empire received their Dooming either by a priest wandering or local. In Sturmhöhe’s case, Tjorben Aldebrook would read the portents for the first time without aid, which made the end and beginning of a new year by far the busiest time in the year for him.  
  
It was also customary for Nordlanders to begin the new year with a celebration starting around midday, with mainly meat and blood pies being served, they did so to celebrate not only the incoming milestone for the life of those children, but also a winter soon to be ending. Because gathering a whole community just to eat meat was awfully unsavoury, as they would be forced to sit together even if they didn’t like each other, that event was also filled with bad music and dance, the food being offered in a sort of buffet. Given the cattle being slaughtered before this day – one had to share the dread before Witching night with animals, after all – and the abundance of food this produced even in lean winters, Yalene had always wondered why the people in the poorhouse still preferred to stay there and eat their soup. Arnwald had explained to her once that there was a certain amount of pride, and the inhabitants of the poorhouse were mostly concerned about being called greedy or freeloading by the local rumour mongers, especially since they were already living on charity. That, sadly, was a legitimate concern. So the soup had to go to the poorhouse, but both she and Arnwald felt that the pot was a bit too heavy to carry it even one step further.  
  
“Hey, you there!”, she simply called out to the nearest group of Watchmen, clearly recognizable by the distinctive blue and yellow uniform that they shared with the soldiers of Nordland. Thankfully, the small group of men took heed, and she particularly addressed the one that was built like a lighthouse. “Can somebody carry this for Brother Reijnders?”  
  
The lack of enthusiasm was palpable as the Watchmen silently exchanged looks. In the end, the lighthouse shrugged and grunted affirmatively, good lazy-mouthed Nordlander that he was, only to slowly getting his frame into motion to help Arnwald, who waved at her before going back to work.  
  
When she was finally able to set down her pies, she scanned the crowd, but her favourite nephew was nowhere to be seen. Since he had a so very pregnant wife and a toddler home, she somewhat disappointedly assumed that they didn’t attend the event. She was, however, ambushed by a bear hug by her brother, Captain Hendrik Hoffmann himself, giant of a man with a majestic white beard. He hugged her tightly and used the opportunity to whisper a few words into her ear.  
  
“I’m heading for Dietershafen in three days. Setting sail in a few weeks. I surely need an interpreter.” Not awaiting a response, he simply winked and grinned widely as Yalene was awash with gratitude. It was good to know that she could take refuge with her brother just in case the situation in Sturmhöhe became dicey. Perhaps she would take that offer either way. The Sea of Claws partially froze over winter, so Hendrik was currently on shore-leave at half-pay. This was one of the few years that he could spent the beginning of the new year home, so she ought to make more time for him.  
  
No more words were necessary, they understood each other. So Hendrik tipped his imaginary hat and started mingling with the crowd again.  
  
There was barely time to get a drink, as dusk set in soon. When the sun kissed the horizon and basked the snowy forests in blood-red, Tjorben Aldebrook appeared in his most ornate and magnificent robe. The heavy black cloth was embroidered with runes of old, his girdle and shoulders adorned with bones and skulls, his features obscured by his hood. The formerly celebrating and laughing crowd immediately fell silent as Father Aldebrook strode through their rows deliberately without acknowledging anybody, striding to the graveyard.  
  
The Dooming was about to begin.  
  
Yalene joined the vast majority of the crowd in silence as they all slowly followed Father Aldebrook, only to stay away from a distance. Usually, a Dooming would be held in a cave, but since these were scarce in these parts, the Morrian priests held this rite at their garden, having prepared a large brazier and waiting for the children to come forth, one by one. It was a distance of about a hundred metres that the children had to walk back and forth, which, as Yalene remembered vividly, only added to the terror of having one’s own death foretold.  
  
She watched as the first child, a scrawny boy with tousled hair, was given his raw meat that he would hand the Morrian to be burnt as an offering, and then receive his Dooming. The poor boy looked as if he was about to throw up out of nervousness as he reluctantly trudged through the snow to face his fate with half the town watching from a distance.  
  
There would be over a dozen children tonight who would have their destiny foretold, so Yalene decided to stand comfortably. It was frowned upon for the able-bodied to sit down to witness the Dooming, but it was allowed, even encouraged to have conversations, provided they were done in a low voice. Tjorben’s mother once told her that the whispers added to the focus of the priest and the general atmosphere, which was as good a reason as any.  
  
Sometimes, words were not only whispered, sometimes they were even unnecessary. Leevke, one of Yalene’s dearest and oldest friends, demonstrated this now when she sauntered up to her carrying a plate with a big slice of meat pie, handed Yalene a fork and clicked it with her as if they were glasses. Then, they both took a bite of that pie and ate it in silence. Leevke was a stocky woman, her strawberry-blonde hair cut at chin-length in mourning for her recently deceased husband. She wore her most ornate white robes befitting her role as a priestess of Verena currently serving in an official role. As stern as she usually was, it was mild interest that now dominated her face as she tried to gauge her friend’s reaction to the attempt of creative cooking.  
  
Yalene let the flavour of the meat pie reside on her tongue a bit longer than it was necessary to believe what she had just eaten, before she enquired in the most polite and quiet way possible: “Say, treasured friend of mine, are these rum raisins in your meat pie?”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Leevke grinned.  
  
“Why, by Ulric’s right buttcheek, would you use rum raisins?”  
  
“Mainly ‘because’.” There was a glint in the Verenan’s eye that betrayed the strictness of her appearance and usual demeanour. “Today, I’ve finally divorced the Freeses. About time … and they lied about breaking their marriage jug as well! Those people should never have been together.” She shook her head while Yalene took another bite of this strange meat pie. The taste started to grow on her, oddly enough. It was not surprising that Leevke had been high in demand in regards to legal practice. As a Verenan and one of only two judges in this town, the first day of the new year was also her busiest time of the year, since every citizen of the Empire was encouraged to lay every and all old grudges to rest, and Leevke took her role as Mother Janßen very seriously. Yalene would know, because just last year, she had been forced to pay a refund towards slighted neighbours for a letter not penned to their satisfaction. Unfortunately, the neighbours had been thoroughly justified in being disgruntled.  
  
Suddenly, the strangest feeling made the hair on Yalene’s neck stand up, and she saw Leevke’s expression of stern satisfaction quickly turning sour. A moment later, she saw why. The man approaching them was without a doubt the ominous Witch Hunter she had heard so much about. He looked like he was taken straight out of a story book, with short, grey hair, weathered skin and harsh features, his countenance eerily calm, wearing black cloak and weaponry of his profession comfortably, as if it were weighing less than driftwood. His burly frame contrasted the rather short ones of Leevke and herself. For a man that looked that grizzled, his expression was rather benign, lifting his wide-brimmed hat in a gallant gesture that seemed odd and terribly out of place for such a gruff and unwashed man  
  
“Indeed. This celebration is called Doomstag. Learn it.” Leevke replied in a steely tone, and if she didn’t have a plate on her hands, she would have crossed her arms while she stared daggers at the Witch Hunter. Yalene, for her part, thought that her friend was a tad too confrontational with a man who had the power to potentially turn neighbouring farms and quite a few residents into ash. “Before you continue, I feel that it is my duty to remind you that you are operating outside your jurisdiction. There will be no interrogations or arrests without the approval of the local magistrate or the Watch.”  
  
“Easy, Verenan. My quarrel is not with you or your flock.”, the Witch Hunter reassured her in a surprisingly smooth voice before turning to Yalene. “I hear that you are the local interpreter of the elven tongue.”  
  
Curious. Eltharin was a difficult language for humans to learn, as it was vastly more complex than other tongues. In fact, Yalene was one of the few humans to have mastered this language, and it was one, if not the main source of income for her. Scholars across the Empire and beyond sent her scrolls and texts for translation, and she had been called to serve as an interpreter at some talks with the Wood Elves on a few occasions. It was just odd that a Witch Hunter would even be interested in such a language; usually, his kind was thoroughly dismissive of anything Elven, sometimes even downright hostile. Plus, the language he used rubbed her the wrong way; usually, common folk would refer to the elven tongue as ‘elf-speak’, which told her that this Witch Hunter came from a much more educated or elf-friendly background than he let on. She looked at him expectantly after reluctantly nodding in affirmation.  
  
“You don’t happen to know if there have been any elves in this town?”  
  
What kind of question was that? The amount of shadow on his face was now almost palpable, indicating that even the winds of magic thought that he was lying. He was preparing some kind of verbal trap, but which one. She saw Leevke tense up in the corner of her eye as well as she replied in a cheerful, polite whisper. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen one in years.”  
  
“Huh … your accent seems a little less atrocious than the other townsfolk.”, he grumbled, clearly changing the subject because his line of questioning went nowhere.  
  
“I am a linguist, after all, so I do recognize that the Nordlander dialect sounds strange to your ears, even though I do not concur.” Yalene chirped. “Furthermore, I had had the privilege to study in Ulricsberg many years ago. I learned a lot about Imperial history and linguistics there, as well as masking my accent. It leads to better grades, you see.” She had also learned a lot about magic in theory there, but she would rather rip her arm out than telling him this.  
  
Baldwin Schönecker’s expression changed, but as she could see only a moment later, he was actually pleased. “Middenheim, hm? I was born there. Bustling and shining city, isn’t it? It’s truly the heart and soul of the Empire.”  
  
She merely nodded in agreement as the Verenan munched rather insistently on another bite of meat pie.  
  
Baldwin’s expression became pensive and even longingly melancholic while he obviously wallowed in the memories of his place of birth. “Unlike this place, it’s so big that it’s no wonder that we never met before. Why did you leave?”  
  
“Because I wanted to return home.”  
  
This answer apparently touched something in that grizzled Witch Hunter, since he was clearly taken aback, but then hinted a wistful smile after he had heard this reply. That was all he apparently wanted to say, because he straightened his shoulders under his armour.  
  
“Thank you for your cooperation. I might have need for your expertise again.” He then obviously meant to leave, which in turned caused Yalene to respectfully nod and turn her back towards him. That was the moment she felt him take one of her two braids into his gloved hand. She froze at that blatant violation of personal space and personal hair, turning her head only ever so slightly so that she could see the offending Witch Hunter in the corner of her eye. He was looking pensively at the braid in his hand, as if holding something foreign, strange and precious. Even his voice sounded a bit faraway, completely oblivious to his intrusion. “I have to ask: What is it with you Nordlanders and long braids?”  
  
While his behaviour was out of line, he was not wrong and it must have seemed strange to him as a Middelander. Nordlanders, male and female, traditionally kept their hair as long as possible, and tended towards long braids and ponytails. Yalene was no different: her hair was long enough that it reached almost to her knees and she had bound them into two braids flowing down her back ever since childhood. Her hair was still a point of pride for her … and something private that she didn’t appreciate to be touched by strangers. Her pleasant demeanour was gone, her voice now carrying the whiff of sharp reproach while she refused to turn around.  
  
“It is ill fortune and displeases Manann to cut hair and nails at sea. When seamen return home, their old habits die hard. Another reason are lice.” Baldwin Schönecker looked at her quizzically, and she elaborated. “A lot of our men become seamen. Those seaman hailing from Nordland are cleaned and deliced when they report to their ship. When illness or lice strike, their hair is usually cut short for treatment. A ship, however, that has an abundance of crew with long hair can prove that it is successful in keeping lice and illness at bay. Hence, it is a lucky ship. Crewmen or people with long hair must be rarely touched by lice or illness either, so it has become a tradition.” And lucky ships were not only favoured, but a solid livelihood. It was not so strange that long hair as a sign of vitality and potential success had become thus quite popular, and not only with seamen, but with their land-faring brethren and women as well. Besides, if an indifferent and fickle god like Manann could be placated by something simple like not cutting the own hair, there was no harm in doing it even when living on land. “It’s a tradition that has spilled over to the mainland for a long time now … so long, I can’t remember a time without it. Would you be so kind and please release my oh so healthy braid now?” She did intend to sound exactly as acidic as she was now, since during her explanations, the Witch Hunter had started to absent-mindedly stroke her braid with his thumb. That meant he had officially arrived at the town of creepers and was not coming back from there to sympathy.  
  
Instead of letting her braid go, he still looked at it. “How do you combat lice?”  
  
Her patience started to run thin, but it was Leevke who now raised her voice a little bit louder than it was proper during a Dooming, her voice and demeanour laced with acidic determination, underlined by her hand resting on her sword hilt. “We have a poultice for that. Very smelly. Release her hair this instant.”  
  
That last sentence seemed to snap the man out of his reverie, but this time, he kept her braid in his hand just a little bit longer, staring at her with an intensity neither of the women liked. “Long hair is good fortune … and yours hasn’t been cut in ages.” He simply remarked, but that little comment carried again that icy sheen that made him so intimidating. At last, he let her braid fall, then turned on his heel and left them to the stares of some suddenly curious onlookers.  
  
When he was finally gone, Yalene checked her heartbeat. Racing way too fast, as expected. No wonder … those Witch Hunters were a dangerous pest. She was friends with just about every priest in this town, had a reputation as an eccentric, yet respectable woman and had never been seen to do anything unbecoming, but still … this was a dangerous state of affair. She had to leave tonight, extract herself from this place until the danger was gone. When she felt Leevke’s hand on her shoulder, she almost flinched.  
  
“We’ve talked about your little trip. Don’t worry, I’ll come with you. Since that creepy buffoon seems to have set his sight on you, it means that we have to leave as soon as possible. I’ve already talked to my assistant. Florian is a smart lad, he will take over my duties in the few days in which we are gone.”  
  
She was right. That Witch Hunter was clearly onto her, so it was time to leave for a short while.  
  
A few hours later in the dead of night, no matter how unwise, they did leave. Tjorben was not deterred either, although he as well as Leevke had just survived the busiest workday of their year, but they still insisted to escort her into the forest despite the hour. While Tjorben wore a chain shirt under his simple robes and armed himself with a mace, Leevke was wearing a cuirass over her white clothing, the sword issued by her church hanging by her hip. Yalene herself had armed herself with a bow and quiver, since this was about the only weapon she could use without accidentally harming another human being. Sometimes, she had touched the spirit walnut in her apron, but it had thankfully not acted up. Silently, the trio went into the forest, lanterns in hand. Yalene had also decided, even in her haste, to follow the advice of her deceased father and was carrying his grimoire in a leather bag slung around her shoulder, the book itself resting on her back under her cloak, safe and sound, but still available if need be. The plan was to rest at the next forest station, near Fynn Kruse’s hut, and then make their way west, deeper into the forest.  
  
“So, how did the ceremony go?”, she asked when they were safely out of the towngate and walking into the silence, in part to calm her own mind, in part because the tired Morrian looked as if he had the certain desire to pour his heart out. And pour he did.  
  
“That was … draining.”, he sighed, his voice just a tad higher pitched than it was normal, indicating that he was indeed shaken by his experience. “Only two of them threw up, so that is certainly the positive side of the evening. At the very least, I’m somewhat glad to leave town for a few days. Now I don’t have to look at their faces and their families for a little while. I think the fishmonger hates me now. As for me … I just had to tell little children how they will die and I have no idea if I messed it up. I saw the symbols in the smoke and thought I saw the right signs, but … you know, you never truly do.”  
  
“That is the nature of interpreting portents. They are always vague and up to interpretation. In time, you will get better, be it dream or Dooming. Besides, you have your God’s guidance; surely, there is ample reason for vague hints of the future.”, Yalene noted in a good-natured and reassuring tone. “After all, if the future were clear, we would stop to grow as people.”  
  
“Also …”, Leevke added firmly. “You can voice these doubts with us privately, but in public, you have to stand by everything you have said and done, _Father_.” She stretched his title for emphasis. “You are the authority on this topic in this town, and as long as you are not negligent within a topic that is certainly not a science or set in stone, you must be sincere. You can admit that not every Dooming is interpreted correctly, but you have to insist that what you have seen is the truth.”  
  
Tjorben made a noise that sounded like an affirmative grunt that originally wanted to be a singer. “It doesn’t help that not every Dooming is true, you know? At my Dooming, my mother said that Manann’s folk shall love me not. That is workable and rather precise. Tjorben Aldebrook shall be eaten by fish.” He raised his chin as he addressed his two companions.  
  
“What were you told?”  
  
Before he was able to back-pedal and tell them that they absolutely did not need to tell him, Yalene answered rather flatly. “Thy end is not the end!” The added dramatic flair turned out to be enriching for a dark prophecy that had foretold her doom so long ago, only that it didn’t. She had always been quite amused by this, while Tjorben paused in his tracks, replying in an equal flat tone.  
  
“Well, that’s what we say when we have no idea what the omen say, but we have to give some kind of answer. At the very least, an end that is not the end is a philosophical conundrum.”  
  
Yalene smiled. “I always suspected as much. But you will hate what Leevke was foretold.” She gave her friend a meaningful glance while the Morrian looked at them both questioningly.  
  
Leevke herself seemed a little bit smug as she recited her own foretelling. “The holy day shall be thy last day.”  
  
Tjorben was stunned into complete silence, blinking, opening his mouth to say something along the lines that one should definitely not ask Morr for his dance so blatantly as to go on a dangerous journey on Doomstag, but then simply and somewhat awkwardly stated.  
  
“Great. _Now _I’m afraid.”  
  
Leevke chuckled softly. “I just believe that human minds might not always be able to fathom the will of a God. It always seemed to me that the priest performing my Dooming just helplessly invented some sort of destiny, so I was always sceptical. I honestly don’t think that there is any danger here. The greenskins are too lazy to attack in this cold, and we should arrive at the next forest station within two hours - if everything fails, Fynn Kruse’s hut is close. So there one could get help if needed. After that, we just travel to the edge of the Laurelorn forest, return your spirit, and then travel back to Sturmhöhe. Seems easy enough.” In the pale light of her lantern, Leevke’s face seemed even more sincere. “Our most dangerous foe is the snow. Our second most dangerous foe is fear. Both, we can conquer.”  
  
Tjorben shifted uncomfortably, and Yalene understood why. Ever since they had stepped deeper into the forest, she could not shake the feeling of being watched, of something ominous, something hiding in the trees that seemed to reach for her with outstretched claws. She didn’t know if it was her own fear and concern of the unknown, a figment of her imagination caused by nightmares, fright of Witch Hunters and the appearance of ghosts in her vicinity, or if it was her witchsight picking on some unseen danger.  
  
Leevke’s words were the last meaningful words spoken for long hours as they made their way through the winter forest. Along the way, it started snowing, thick flakes floating down the sky as they walked in solemn silence, snow reaching to their knees, making a fast walking pace difficult. All way long, aside from the softest sound of snowflakes trickling, there were no sounds, no nightbirds, no wolves howling in the distance, nothing. The eerie silence should have been a deterrent, but they pressed on.  
  
As they made their way through the thick forest, Yalene finally fastened the bow string on a the strange feeling of danger that only intensified the more they travelled onward. She had the distinct feeling that they were not alone, that she might have heard footsteps in the snow behind them, or before them … it was hard to tell. That strange feeling didn’t subside; in fact, it just grew stronger with every step they took. The steadying presence of Leevke and Tjorben at her side was not enough to still her mind. That the forest they were currently walking in was so thick that their lanterns were basically useless didn’t help her to feel secure. The forest station was almost within reach, where they could make a fire, warm themselves up and rest for a spell … it should be less than fifteen minutes. They were almost safe, but why o why did Yalene feel that the opposite was true?  
  
It was then when she decided to open her mind and _see_ the world as it was, as she rarely did, when she opened her magical senses and let the world as it was flood over her. She was wary to do this, but it felt right to do it now, in this darkness only lit by dim lantern light. And when she opened her mind, she saw more than she had bargained for. Breath of death all around them like the cold winter night, the dancing snowflakes turning the world black, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. There was a seeping blackness close, so close that she just had to turn her head, but before she could do that, she had to close her mind again. There were people around them, foreign and different, terrible and beautiful.  
  
They were walking into an ambush.  
  
“Leevke, watch out, there are …!” Before she could finish that warning, as she felt the hilt of a weapon slammed against her temple. The force was enough to send her tumbling to the ground, tasting blood on her tongue that she must have accidentally bitten. The whole world was blurry before her eyes and she barely could make out anything aside from the pain and the memory of face of her attacker. Around her, weapons clashed, and there was shouting. This barely reached her awareness, but what she kept before she slipped into unconsciousness was the shock, disappointment and anger at her attacker, no other than righteous Baldwin Schönecker.


	3. Thy end is not the end

Pain. It surged through flesh and bone, filled the muscles with a burning sensation as if they were torn. The sickening sense of nausea was only overshadowed by persistent dizziness. It also felt like there was an overwhelming weight on her body, as if gravity suddenly had a stronger and more painful pull, keeping her flat on the ground. Before Yalene could open her eyes, she could already feel the wrongness around her, like drowning in the cold, black sea that seeped into her very being. She could also taste the blood on her tongue, where she had accidentally bitten herself. Additionally, she could have sworn that she could taste sickeningly sweet decay and burned ash. Or perhaps she could smell it, that was unclear. She couldn’t move, not even an inch, in part because she felt too weak, and in part because she felt that her hands and feet were bound. But otherwise, the world around her seemed eerily quiet.  
  
This turned out to be an illusion. Just because the terrible sounds of clashing weapons and howls of pain had receded, it didn’t mean that she was alone. That would have been a blessing. It cost her so much strength to open her eyelids, but when she did, she could only see the slightly blurred image of a kneeling figure beside her, clad mostly in black, as black as his hair, while his skin was ghastly pale. He was armed and armoured, but it was unlike any armour she had ever seen. Had he been painted on a picture, she would have wrinkled her nose and pointed out that nobody could look that immaculate and that no skin was that flawless. But what really struck her aside from his appearance was the outlandish countenance and callous indifference with which he touched her by the neck with his gloved hand. She used to examine the fruit on the market the same way as he examined her, only that she was much more gentle and careful with any fruit she was intending to spend money on.  
  
This was an elf. The pointed ears would have been the last thing to identify him as such. The way he moved, the strange mix of slight boredom and disdainfulness as well as his otherworldly appearance made him look more like a creature than human to Yalene’s eyes. She was lying flat on her stomach and her view was therefore limited, could barely open her eyes and didn’t know why she couldn’t move, pain throbbing through her, barely being able to make sense of her environment, but she knew this: This man was not human. He was far and beyond.  
  
She had seen a similar countenance before when meeting with an envoy of Wood Elves, or dealing with the elven scholar that had taught her Eltharin and schooled her about the different dialects and idiosyncrasies of this language. This man and the other elves that had entered her life looked eerily similar. He barked something that she could identify as informing somebody that she was awake. Despite her budding terror, Yalene did take a moment to realize that he mumbled the personal pronoun describing her. How rude.  
  
The fog around her senses slowly started to clear up, as she could hear muffled voices and pained groans in the background. The heavy snow from earlier had receded and had left its traces on her clothing and hair. Where were the others? The groan she had heard in the background had been clearly female, so it was a good chance that it might have been Leevke. She hoped that it was Leevke. A group of Dark Elves had obviously caught them, but for what purpose? If they weren’t dead now, then they had to serve one. But since they had asked for an escort and had been denied by the Watch, then had walked off without informing anybody about their destination, help was certainly not on the way. Their only hope was that the Wood Elves living nearby were somehow alerted and disgusted by the presence of their dark cousins. The irony was not lost on Yalene – her whole life, she had understood that the Wood Elves living nearby were decidedly _not_ friends, would never lift a finger in a human’s defence and were unreliable allies at best when they faced a mutual enemy or disaster. But now, she was counting on their hatred for their dark cousins.  
  
But it was not only the cold that made her shiver; it was also the two figures that stepped into her visual periphery when the armoured elf had left. Baldwin Schönecker, the traitorous Witch Hunter was at this point a familiar face, as unwelcome as it was. He must have followed them, or somehow alerted the Dark Elves of their presence in the forest.  
The other was a female elf, possessing the same otherworldly and stunning beauty as the other one, presumably a guard. She regarded Yalene with the same arrogant disdain, mingled with slight curious expression. Her movements were slow and deliberate, exuding confidence well beyond what could be considered a healthy measure and seemed comfortable wearing the thin, purple dress thoroughly deserving of the ‘risqué’-description in this cold. What struck Yalene as the strangest and most inhuman thing about her appearance was the spiked headdress that looked quite heavy and uncomfortable. The elf didn’t raise her voice, instead arching her sharply shaped eyebrow and looking at Baldwin questioningly.  
  
“Mistress Vesash.”, he addressed her with deference, adopting a tone that sounded strangely cold and detached, even a bit monotone. He acted more like a cog in a mechanical construct than the fiercely paranoid person he ought to be. “That’s a witch. In my opinion, she’s strong and schooled enough for your purposes, but either too weak or too smart to cast spells. If she were able to use her magic in combat, she would have done so already.”. The elf, this ‘Vesash’, nodded appreciatively, making a gesture as if to reach out to pet the Witch Hunter’s greasy hair as if he were a dog, only to redact the gesture in one, fluid motion that seemed as natural as it was casually cruel. Worse, it was Baldwin who nudged his head longingly as if awaiting a caress, only to be denied.  
  
Utterly disturbing.  
  
Quickly, as if nothing had happened, he continued in the same, strange tone that seemed unlike him. “How to proceed?”  
  
“Prepare the circle and the sacrifices.” She spoke louder, a command to others that had to be around them and that Yalene couldn’t see. But she felt the weight and shape of her father’s grimoire a steadying and comforting presence against her back. The words that the elf had spoken were so unreal, so unbelievable, and she felt strangely numb and paralysed. Dark Elves? Sacrifices? They knew that Greenskins were in these forests, but who would have thought that Dark Elves would have made their way here? They shouldn’t be, and neither should this blasted Witch Hunter be working with them. How long exactly had he done so and how many people had he led an early grave?  
  
It was when this realization dawned that Baldwin Schönecker bent over her body to look her straight in the eye, the one that she could use and was not covered in dirt. He didn’t look well, with the cut on his face unattended and the blood dried, his swollen eye turning into a darker shades of purple, green and blue. She hadn’t noticed that his eyes had been deep and unnaturally black before. When he addressed her, he seemed calm, but not at peace. It was more of the whispering, regretful tone of a person getting closure in the most terrible way.  
  
“All of this doesn’t give me any pleasure. I wanted you to know that.” As he spoke, the black colour of his eye seemed more fluid and started to drip out like viscous tears of tar. He either didn’t mind or didn’t feel or see that as he continued. “This is not personal. I’ve done everything I could, you know? I didn’t even have to lure you, I just followed you to run into their arms … you led them here. Did you have to leave tonight? You could have waited until the morning and your companions wouldn’t have been there. I would have just taken you into custody and made sure you were the only one given to the ritual. As for your companions … your friend is not a particularly good priestess, since she knowingly allowed the injustice of having a Hedge wizard in their midst. The Forest Warden practices those forbidden elf rituals, and as for your Morrian …” He paused for a moment. “ ... well, he is a good man, but he simply made the wrong choice following you. Being gullible costs your town the only priest of Morr they have.”  
  
The tar-like substance now ran down his face, making Yalene feel even more disgust that she already had for this man. She was not able to move, frightened out of her wits and sickened by the fact that she was obviously to be part of some sort of ritual that was guaranteed to be Dark Magic at best and dedicated to Chaos at worst. She was also trembling, in part due to the cold, and in part due to that white-hot anger that was currently bubbling up inside her. This was a Witch Hunter, and she was willing to endure his continued existence provided what he did was true to his profession; but now, it seemed that he was in league with Dark Elves, known to be practitioners of Dark Magic. It looked like the sorceress had put at least some spell on him and it felt like it would make Yalene’s head burst anytime now just by looking at the grotesque mass in and his head, but she begrudged him for being corrupt enough to have gotten himself in the situation. She didn’t care how much in denial he was and how much he wanted to justify himself before her, as if him not having led all of them being butchered somehow made his actions less despicable. Judging from his words, they had captured Fynn Kruse also, in addition to the little trio that left Sturmhöhe.  
  
He was apparently very intent to justify himself before her, as if he were aiming for some kind of absolution from a fellow human being. In Yalene’s eyes, a Witch Hunter often got to act above the law; the least he could do was to resist such dark magic. And yet, he hadn’t. She didn’t care right now that he obviously wasn’t well. He should only come a little closer, and then, by Verena's wisdom, she’d show him _justice_.  
  
The Witch Hunter must have been able to read the cold fury in her hardened features, because he continued in an infuriatingly soft tone that was apparently meant to soothe fear and wrath alike. “I know that it’s bitter, but know that there is nothing that you could have done. I habitually hunt down hedge wizards like you. Even without my associates, I have been meaning to visit your town for quite some time now.” Again, he met Yalene’s stone-cold silence, and sighed, lowering his voice even more. “The incidents in your hometown were reportedly few. It makes me think that somebody must have trained you. That makes you prime apprentice material. Why haven’t you come to Altdorf? You could have made a promising wizard and have a respectable career like the respectable woman you appear to be. But no, you had to break the law. Why?”  
  
Again, Yalene kept stubbornly silent. Her reasons were personal, and she was not about to share this with him, especially since the irony that he sought absolution from a ‘witch’ was not lost on her.  
  
Underneath, she felt that there was another agenda within the Witch Hunter, that he was asking something else from her, something that only she could provide. The black liquid started to drip from his mouth, ears and even from his hair, causing Yalene’s a burning sensation in the eyes that was not particularly tied to the grotesque sight, but rather the magic causing it. But it occurred to her what he wanted … this was when their interests aligned and were understood between them. He was hoping that she could break the spell.  
  
_Come closer_, she thought. _You just have to come a little bit closer.  
  
_But he was still expecting an answer and alas, was not able to read her thoughts. So she extended the tiniest of olive branches in the hopes that he would understand what he needed to do for her to finally be able to act. “I wanted to stay home, surrounded by the loving people you are about to slaughter.” She grumbled, truthfully, and hopefully quietly enough to provoke him to bend forward a little.  
  
His facial expression only changed ever so slightly, as if there had been a hint of regret, long-buried, fighting its way to the surface. But it faded as quickly as she heard the Dark Elf sorceress call out to him to hurry. Their time was brief and she would start to get suspicious. Apparently, that was exactly what Baldwin was thinking, as he drew his knife almost instantly.  
  
“One moment, just getting a trophy.” He replied towards the sorceress that Yalene couldn’t see, and she felt her heart sinking at those words. What was he going to do, cutting fingers or other body parts? At the same time, as he slowly bent over her, she saw her chance to extract her own version of justice. Pushing the fear away and ignoring the shades that crossed her peripheral vision and that ought to be more Dark Elves, she focused. She focused intently, like she had never done before, focused all her senses on the man bending over her. It was no easier to see the fluid black core inside of him that was not his own, the one that weaved through his mind like oily twigs. His actions were not entirely his own, and at least in part, he did the bidding of that sorceress because his will was bound to hers. No wonder those Dark Elves let him walk freely around them and act as he pleased.  
  
What Yalene did with what little knowledge she had, what she had learned thanks to her earlier study of her father’s grimoire, was to mentally reach for those ties that bound him, and imagined that she severed them, _willed_ them to break. Her voice to the formula to focus her mind was only the softest of whispers, so soft that only the Witch Hunter could hear her as he cut one of her braids off. It didn’t break her concentration, but made her feel even more humiliated as she focused on the strands. He was gone too quickly for her to be certain that they were broken, but the black liquid oozing out of his orifices stopped flowing, although it stayed on his face like a residue, a stain on his soul. The man himself didn’t even flinch or move, so he was either covering for her or ignoring her.  
  
Either way, it was out of her hands now. She felt thoroughly exhausted, blood trickling down her nose, while she had to helplessly watch as the Witch Hunter fastened her long braid at his belt. That was really just adding insult to severe injury. But now, she felt too tired to feel angry and barely recognized that she was dragged a few metres. One of her eyes was too dirt-crusted to even open it, but with the other, she could catch glimpses of her surroundings, of a natural stone circle and how people had been leaned against them. They had mentioned that they needed sacrifices for their blasted ritual and the Witch Hunter had mentioned the Forest Warden, so Fynn had to be here somewhere. But she couldn’t find him or Tjorben anywhere within her peripheral vision, and probably just wasn’t able to. In the corner of her eye, she could see Leevke’s dirty, white robes and managed to turn her head slightly to get a better look, only to get startled at the sight. Leevke was clearly unconscious, her whole mouth covered with blood, and additionally bleeding from several gaping stab wounds and purple threads reaching out to her.  
  
She was dying.  
  
Struggling against her restraints was futile, but she tried anyway, which earned her a half-hearted kick in the stomach by a passing Dark Elf guard. Yalene doubled up with pain, gasping for air, blood rushing through her ears. She was not proud to admit that had even felt tears welling up her eyes and that it took her an embarrassingly long amount of time until she could breathe again and had recovered enough to take any position that was not reminiscent of curling into a ball. It was then when Baldwin Schönecker addressed her again, having the audacity to sound a little bit smug.  
  
“When she realized what was happening, she picked a fight. When they restrained her, she bit her tongue off. Patching her up didn’t work so well. We have to start earlier now because she’s bleeding out too quickly.” In the face of such suicidal dedication to not become a human sacrifice for a ritual of Dark Magic, even the fallen Witch Hunter seemed impressed. If he had made the effort to get to know the Verenan priestess, he would have known for sure that she would rather fling herself off the next cliff than to be part of anything that sinister.  
  
What she also heard in his voice was the hint of accusation. Why didn’t she do the same to stop this ritual, whatever it was? Well, why didn’t she? It was not like she would survive this ordeal. But deep within her heart, Yalene was a coward, still hoping that miraculously, somebody - be it elves, townspeople, lost Imperial patrol, anybody - would rush through the woods, swoop in, kill the Dark Elves and help them all back on their feet. It was an insane hope, born of paralysing fear. She didn’t want to die. She couldn’t die. Not here, not now. But what to do? She had done everything she possibly could and was now powerless. If she had been able to break the spell by a powerful sorceress holding a Witch Hunter, she doubted, but she had tried her best. It had to be enough. But what if it wasn’t?  
  
Whenever she caught a glimpse of one of those Dark Elf guards – how many were there? - she found them curiously bored and sometimes slightly annoyed at the proceedings, but none of them seemed overly interested. They had won, and their sorceress was now poised to do her ritual, which they deemed safe enough. They also didn’t anticipate any distraction. She really hoped that they were wrong.  
  
Without further ado, the sorceress started chanting, dagger in hand, and how much time passed was hard to tell. It was a heavy blade that she wielded, one was too unwieldy to be used effectively in combat. She used such a strange and foreign dialect that even Yalene couldn’t fully understand what she was saying and only understood that there was some sort of transfer to be done and that the female elf she had seen earlier lying sleeping on the stone was the centrepiece of this whole endeavour. To her eyes, there was now this tar-like substance slowly oozing out of the ground beneath them, drowning any other magic and crawling slowly towards the sorceress, who started moving out of Yalene’s sight.  
  
This was the first time when she heard the cut and the terrible gurgle of somebody whose throat was being slit.  
  
From one moment to the other, all the fatigue and pain in her body receded as Yalene listened with horror as one by one, the sorceress killed her ritual sacrifices, people with thoughts, dreams and wishes, feeding the black magic underneath them all. She may have been bound, but now she started struggling again in panic, but not to avail. The sorceress kept chanting in that strange tongue of hers, and kept killing. Even when Yalene closed her eyes, she could still see that black liquid, could still taste some sort of stale decay on her tongue, smell and feel the wrongness in the air at the same time. When the Dark Elf approached Leevke with her knife, Yalene was already sobbing uncontrollably, and too overwhelmed to witness this kind of act. She turned her head away, deeply ashamed not to be with her friend in this last moment, at least not in this sense, as the sorceress’ knife did its bloody work again.  
  
It was her turn now. Witnessing all of this alone had left her boneless like a husk of herself, and any hope of rescue had already faded. She could have faced her fate bravely, struggling, biting, kicking and screaming, but the magic of this ritual had already leeched all of her strength. Or perhaps she had always been a coward like this, She was almost beyond caring when she saw the harsh features of that pale elf above her, blood dripping from her knife. Oddly enough, she barely felt the cut, but what she did feel was the sudden warmness of blood flooding down her chest and soaking her clothes. She also felt a painful drain, and was more shocked than in pain as it happened. When her vision started to fade, she witnessed what she thought would be her last wonder before oblivion.  
  
She saw how the Witch Hunter had sneaked up behind the sorceress and now, a cold, determined gleam in his eye, ran his blade through her body, leaving the Dark Elf wide-eyed and utterly in shock. There was an explosion of pure white, heat and coldness, but it faded away as Yalene felt her life leaving her body. At least she had been avenged immediately after her murder. That was a strangely comforting thought.

*

It was raining when Yalene opened her eyes, something that was impossible in winter; therefore, it had to be spring, which was a most pleasant thought. It had to be past dawn already for the sky being so blue. It was fitting, considering the strange dream that she had had. While the raindrops pleasantly trickled on her skin, she wondered why she felt so strange, why there was stone beneath her back, why her vision was initially so blurry and needed a moment to adjust to the light.  
  
It was then when the events of the night came back to her and she gasped, her hands immediately grasping her own throat. There was no wound, and her hands were unbound. That was not right. With her gaze still skyward, she barely dared to have a look, but eventually, she would have to. The first thing she had noticed was the smoothness of the skin around her neck, and that couldn’t be. This was not her neck, this was not the correct weight on her chest as she breathed in and out, this was not her scent. Every person in the world had a scent that didn’t smell bad … it was just unique to the person, and she could smell herself and smelled wrong. Not bad, just wrong. Her mind still attempted to grapple with the sheer implication of something so seemingly innocuous like a different body scent when she finally dared to raise her hands to her eye level without raising her head or her body, without paying attention of the hints she saw in her peripheral vision.  
  
Those were pale hands, with long, elegant fingers and carefully manicured fingernails. Those were not hers … too slender, too young. There was no trace of the slightly calloused skin where she would usually hold her quill, or the bright little scar at her thumb that she had gotten years ago from a little cooking accident.  
  
Feeling her heart beating in her chest, Yalene concluded that if she felt pain in her body, however it looked, she must have been alive. Perhaps the ritual had had some healing and rejuvenating properties? Then it was possible that others had survived the ordeal. There was only one way to be certain, and that was to have a look around.  
  
Carefully, she propped herself up. She had worn a simple, brown dress when she had set out with Tjorben and Leevke, made out of linen, which she thought had been comfortable to wear. But now, she was wearing a thin and strange mesh between a dress and a long tunic, so thin that in its wet state from the rain, it clung tightly to her body. _Fantastic_, she thought. _I’m factually naked. But I’d rather be indecent than dead. _Her legs were long and clad in some kind of fitting, black tights and fashionable, if impractical shoes, not her legs at all. She had always been of average height. Nothing made sense here.  
  
After that, she had no interest in examining herself for fear of what she could discover and looked around. Now that she was doing so, it was almost overwhelming … there were bodies everywhere, mostly Dark Elves in their black and purple armour, their bodies unnaturally contorted and bloody, their facial expressions frozen in terror. The air around the elven bodies was still sizzling with shreds of magic gone out of control. She also saw Fynn’s attire, blood-drenched animal skins mostly, but the man’s face seemed like a stranger in death, although she had known him almost all of her life. She could see the black fabric of Tjorben’s robes further back, as well as the stained white of Leevke’s dress. The sorceress was lying in her own puddle of blood, still clutching her chest. Behind her, two of her men had hacked the Witch Hunter to death.  
  
And then there was her own body.  
  
There it was, clear as day, the face that she had looked at in the mirror for over half a century. Everything was exactly as she remembered it – the gaunt face, the pockmarks, one of her braids ruggedly cut, and her own throat slit. Her body was lying there, slumped together, blood-drenched like all the others.  
  
After the shock of being betrayed by a Witch Hunter, after being captured by Dark Elves and after being used as a human sacrifice to fuel dark magic, she had thought that nothing could shock her anymore. But there she was. She hadn’t survived her adventure. Either this was the strangest dream she had ever had, or this was real. Was she a ghost? But she had felt mild pain, even if it was a headache.  
  
Shaking, she tried to rise, only to fall down at the first try like a newborn animal. It should have frustrated her, but it didn’t, as if the shock was numbing her to everything else. Perhaps it was a blessing. The rain on her skin felt strangely comforting, and she managed to gather up her strength and took her first tentative steps towards the Witch Hunter. Unless he had survived having half his head sliced off, he had met his gory end, although underneath, Yalene could see curled lips. He had been smiling when he died. She checked the two elves lying beside him as well, but was quite certain that they were as deceased as their sorceress. It was the strangest feeling, to feel the cold wind on her wet clothes, feeling the skeleton within her skin moving as she moved. These thoughts and impressions were shooed away; she had to survey this massacre, and make sense of what had happened. Afterwards, and only then, would she take a look at herself. She ignored her own body for the time being, coming to kneel beside the Verena priestess. Poor Leevke couldn’t have possibly survived that much loss of blood, and laid there pale and motionless. Her skin was cold as a stone, and as she stroked the fallen priests cheek, she could feel her own tears running down her face.  
  
It was so unfair. Why was this brave, kind person dead and why was she still alive? Was she still alive, for that matter?  
  
The pain she now felt was enough to tighten her chest and steal her breath away. She heard herself sobbing and crying uncontrollably. It hurt to see her like this, and even imagining how much Leevke would frown if she had seen her friend crying over her body in such an undignified manner, it took Yalene a long time to finally calm down a little and keep searching for survivors, although it was a futile effort. Poor Tjorben had met the same fate as Fynn, a fate undeserved. The Morrian in particular didn’t look peaceful in his god’s embrace, but tired and sunken in – he had been so young. Why had this happened to him?  
  
At last she had confirmed that everyone but her was dead, and she wasn’t even certain about herself. In the end, she had examined every dead person just to be sure, only to now kneel beside her own body again.  
  
It was so strange, seeing oneself. There was no beauty, nor peace in it, as poets sometimes claimed. It looked like something, a thing, that she had left behind. It was also definitely her, no doubt about that. So what did that make her, the person that she was right now? She hadn’t examined herself, or what was currently walking around as her, and quite frankly, she didn’t want to. It felt wrong, it smelt wrong, she could even feel the bones in her body that felt wrong. She wanted desperately to be back, right there, lying in the grass with all the other people, where she belonged. But she didn’t want to die, but she didn’t know what else to do either. Staying wasn’t an option, and the thought of remaining in this open slaughterhouse even a minute longer was unbearable. Still, it felt incredibly surreal to leave this scene and her own body, as if it weren’t attached to her.  
  
But she had to look at it from a realistic angle: Whatever had happened, she was now a shivering woman in a thin dress and soon to be hungry and thirsty. She needed help, so she had to walk to Sturmhöhe, which would take hours and hours. But Arnwald, Wiebke and Finja were there, as well as one of her brothers and her nephew and his family. Her dog would be there. She could do it.  
  
She had taken her father’s grimoire from her own body as well as her thick cloak, which would be much needed. Why was it raining, where was the snow? There was also the little spirit seed that she thumbed pensively in her hands, the spirit that had started the whole chain of events for her. A part of her was irrationally angry at the spirit resting in this kernel, but the much more rational part prevailed. After all, the Witch Hunter had been right – she had left on her own accord. If she hadn’t done so, then Tjorben might have gone alone or would have taken who knows with him. She might have accompanied him just to get away from the Witch Hunter. Or she might have ended up on a pyre instead of here. However she put it, she was now still alive, or at least hoped so.  
  
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you home. It will just take a while longer.”, she whispered towards the spirit walnut, only to feel it glow in response. In all of this insanity, this was reassuring.  
  
She had already risen to her full height despite and started taking the first, tentative steps when she reconsidered and turned back to reach for one of her own, dead hands and removed the ring off the finger. It wasn’t even a valuable piece, just a thin, silver ring made for a woman’s hand. It had been her beloved grandmother’s, and had been with her almost all of her life. It was hers. The last time that she had cried as much as she was right now was at said grandmother's funeral. Even if she couldn’t live in her own body, no matter how desperately she wanted to, that ring was hers.  
  
When she tried to put it on her ring finger, it turned out that it was too slender. She decided that she didn’t want to understand the reason for this right now. So she put it on the index finger, where it was loose, but wasn’t in immediate danger to fall off, and started her walk home.  
  
She was glad to leave that massacre behind. A part of her mind whispered that Fynn’s hut was close and that she could go there, but she wanted people around her, needed their help, needed to feel the _life_ around her again. Around her, she could see the trees, feel the ground under her feet and hear the birds. The ritual must have been potent indeed, for it had melted the snow across the site, and she must have stepped through an invisible barrier to step on snow again, which made her shiver in the cold. Her clothes wouldn’t dry, and she would need to warm up very soon if she didn’t want to die of hypothermia. But around her, even as her teeth shattered in the cold, it was an idyllic scenery, especially compared to the one she had left behind. In time, the tears stopped flowing, but she still could feel the occasional sob rising in her throat. Yalene also noted that she dealt well with the cold … she should have been curled into a ball and having made a fire already, but she didn’t freeze as she ought to. She pressed onward, down the path she had walked the night before, back home.  
  
After hours and hours of one of the most difficult walks of her life, certainly the most straining and heartbreaking, she finally saw the snow-covered rooftops of Sturmhöhe. Judging that it was better if she slipped in quietly, she hid her face under her hood, ignoring the foreign strands of hair, and waited until the bored Watchmen at the gate went either for a break or change of shift. It took ages and the break of dusk, but finally, he did. So she slipped in, quietly, sneaking carefully through backyards and side streets. One time, she jumped as a passer-by wished her a good evening by name, and she didn’t turn around to check who it was, just hurried forward. He must have recognized her winter cloak, which was kind of distinct in its dark blue colour. She had been wearing it for years … no wonder that she was associated with it. Still, the cloak didn’t fit at all, which was of moderate concern.  
  
Finally, finally, she reached her destination, the temple of Shallya. She had never been so thankful that her circle of friends consisted mostly of priests, as well as at least two of them in the sturdiest building in town, with the thickest walls and large rooms. One could not enter unnoticed, so she didn’t try, stepping through the heavy double door and then taking a sharp turn to the room in which she knew common herbs were stored, away from the patients currently residing several halls. It was there she found Wiebke, Arnwalds wife, searching the shelf, back turned to the door. Wiebke was a statuesque woman of obviously Norscan descent as a lot of Nordlanders were. Usually, Yalene had to look up to her, but now, as she peeked around the corner, she noticed that she and the tall woman were roughly of the same height, and she didn’t even want to speculate as to why.  
  
“Wiebke?”  
  
The Shallyan didn’t turn around, just grunted in affirmation as she was still shuffling through the contents of the shelf.  
  
“It’s Yalene. There was an incident … the others are dead. I don’t know what happened, it’s just … I think I might look different. Please don’t be scared.” She had wanted to say more, but that was when Wiebke turned around. She had never been much of a screamer, ever being a calm rock to Arnwald's bouts of absent-mindedness. She didn’t scream now when she saw Yalene, but her face said that she would have liked to do so.

*

  
“She’s telling the truth as she sees it.” The glow of the prayer to Verena was leaving the priest slowly. Wiebke had acted quickly and locked Yalene into one of the unused rooms where she had been able to shed her wet clothes in favour of an undyed shift dress and a blanket. The next thing she knew, Wiebke had not only consulted her husband, but also Leevke’s assistant, Florian Schröder. Florian was a curious sight in Sturmhöhe; he was from Middenheim, his hair a dark and curly mass. He also happened to be young and attractive, if a little shy. As to this day, Yalene had traded words with each other, but now, he had been called by two baffled and overwhelmed Shallyans who could neither believe their eyes, nor the words Yalene was saying. The Verenan had turned white as a sheet when he had first laid eyes on her, then had questioned her wearing a silken blindfold to appeal to the favour of his goddess, who granted her followers to ferret out the truth, no matter how fantastic or absurd.  
  
The young man seemed utterly baffled as he sat back, looking somewhat exhausted, leaning back in the chair he was sitting in, while Arnwald and Wiebke were leaning against the wall, holding hands as they watched the scenery unfold. The awkward silence between the four of them persisted, and had done so since she had stumbled into the two of them. Yalene could feel how much on edge they were, and who could blame them? Ostensibly, she was running around with a different appearance, possibly the body of another woman. For what reason, she couldn’t say, and if it was difficult for her, who didn’t have to look all the time at a different face, how would it be for them?  
  
Arnwald seemed to be especially disturbed as he sometimes pulled away from his wife to pace around in the small room, but always angled his body away from her. Florian and Wiebke regarded her with pensive silence, while Arnwald tried very hard not to look at her at all. She sat on the spartan bed hugging her knees and trying to make sense of all of this.  
  
“We need to see to the dead.”, she finally said, not only to break the silence, but out of a sense of urgency. “We need another priest of Morr, and the mayor has to be notified. There … there must be somebody who has to be notified. Should we light the bonfires to alert the Wood Elves?”  
  
For some reason, those questions remained unanswered as the Verenan took a deep breath and Arnwald stopped his pacing. It was Wiebke who finally, quietly found a way to reply to her at all. “You are right. The bodies from your stone circle have to be recovered, and we need a priest of Morr in Sturmhöhe as soon as possible for the proper ceremonies.”  
  
Florian leaned forward and fixated her with his dark, intense eyes. “Ma’am, you have other concerns. What are we going to do with _you_? You can’t return home.”  
  
“Why can’t she?” Arnwald snapped, having finally found his voice again, but the priest of Verena just gestured at her, exasperated.  
  
“Just look at her!”  
  
“We can make it work. We’ll make it work, somehow. People will be distrustful, yes, but they’ll come around ...”  
  
“Look. At. Her.”  
  
“So what?”, Arnwald huffed.  
  
“What if the next Witch Hunter comes around, or the next Roadwarden? The next Wood Elf? The next Imperial Soldier? _Any_ guest travelling through this town? What then?” Florian addressed Yalene again, which all things considered, was kind of polite. “Please be reasonable. He just wants to help ...” He waved dismissively in the Shallyan’s direction, who threw up his arms. “… but you are a sensible, intelligent and educated woman. You can see the reality of this, can’t you?”  
  
Not really. She didn’t understand why it was so bad to re-integrate her into the community. Certainly, she couldn’t do so as Yalene Hoffmann, since she now wore another face … but why couldn’t she just live a quiet life as somebody else, under a new identity? “I don’t understand the problem.” She tentatively replied, deciding to go with her suggestion of a third option. “Why can’t you just tell everybody that I’m the Dark Elves’ victims and the sole survivor of this cursed incident? Which, by the way, is the truth so that Verena’s tenets are not broken. I could just take another name and live as before. Nobody could tell.”  
  
The three of them exchanged baffled looks. It was the Shallyan, who found his speech first, obviously careful with his phrasing. “Do you feel … different?”  
  
“Very. The scent is off, and the birds and your voices are so loud. I also can smell that you changed your robes; these ones are freshly laundered. I also feel a bit nauseous.”  
  
After a pause, it was the Verenan who tentatively asked. “Have you looked into a mirror lately?”  
  
Oh no. If her appearance was that off, maybe she was missing a nose or something. It didn’t feel like it, but she hadn’t felt her pockmarks either. She hadn’t dared to touch her face, and as for a mirror … she simply hadn’t had the opportunity to pass one. “No mirrors in the wilderness in the midst of winter.”, she replied cautiously.  
  
The three of them exchanged, but this time, they shared a facial expression that, if one had only two words and a punctuation mark to describe it in the most succinct way possible, then it would be ‘Oh crap!’. In fact, they looked almost scared to tell her.  
  
“Well?”  
  
After a long, awkward pause, Wiebke left the room, only to return after a few minutes with a tiny mirror that he used to see if a person was still alive and if their breath still fogged a mirror. Handing it to her, she finally got to look at the face she was now wearing, the face of another woman. She felt it keenly that this was not her body, and she felt it even more as she looked at this strange and foreign face looking back at her. Her skin was pallid and flawless, the features soft and her hair black, fine and glossy, cut mid-back. There were no earrings, other jewellery or tattoos marred the skin, or those pointed ears. In many ways, this face was the polar opposite of her own, her original, her familiar face. Hers had been the honest face of a middle-aged, human woman, and this, this was now the face of a Dark Elf.  
  
She was inhabiting the body of a Druchii.  
  
Again, she looked at her face, hoping that it would just be an illusion, a trick that the winds of magic played with her mind, but it was not so. She noted that the only thing those two faces had in common were grey eyes, but otherwise, they couldn’t have been further apart. As much as it should have shocked her, it didn’t. Perhaps deep down, she had already known and was now only confirming it.  
  
So many people, she mused, would be pleased by this change. After all, ageing was difficult and not for the weak of heart. She had been in her twilight years, her back had started to hurt and she had gotten tired easily. Furthermore, most people seemed to yearn for beauty, and the face she was looking at was without the shred of a doubt breathtakingly beautiful. But it also made her a Dark Elf, and she had seen what those fiends could do. She didn’t want beauty, she never wanted beauty. The only thing she had ever wanted was to connect with people who appreciated her for what she was, for her _soul_. But now, the people around her couldn't even see her as human. Was she even human? There was a disturbing thought.  
  
The longer she looked at the face in the mirror, the more she wanted either to scratch it until it was a bloody mess or throw up. She decided on the latter, letting the mirror sink into the sheets. She felt bile rising in her throat and suspected that the only reason why she didn’t throw up right then and there was due to the emptiness of her stomach.  
  
Arnwald looked at her almost desperately. “Magic did this. Magic can fix this.”  
  
“Fix how?”, Wiebke asked pointedly just to give him an impression of how little magic could fix something like death without raising zombies. While Arnwald struggled for words, Florian decided to join in again.  
  
“Of course it’s not possible. But it’s possible to live with this … and the idea isn’t all that terrible.” Again, he looked at Yalene, but this time, he tried to be gentle and diplomatic, but couldn’t help but sounding a little bit judgemental at times. “I will be honest for a moment, even if you three are not: Ma’am, with all due respect, you should have travelled to Altdorf and joined one of the Colleges of Magic decades ago. Everybody in this town knew what you were, and everybody covered for you. For whatever reason, you didn’t leave, and neither can we change that now, nor do I feel it is my business to question you on your motives. But the simple fact is that you broke the law, knowingly, and that this Witch Hunter by your own report was on your trail when he arrived here.” Shaking his head sympathetically, he continued. “You are not responsible for his crime, or that of those elves. No death is on your conscience. You have done everything you could to help, and even if you are doubting it, you might very well be responsible for allowing this man to break whatever hold the Dark Elves had on him and redeem himself in death. You’ve done all you could, you walked your path until the end. But now, you have changed, and that change means that you have to make changes in your life. You can’t stay here. It would mean danger to all of us. It is time that you do what you should have done a long time ago, and that means going to Altdorf at long last. If your spark of magic died with your body, then they can at least help you mask your appearance, or help you settle in.”  
  
Or they could hand her over to the next best Witch Hunter who was itching for a little pyre to warm his feet.  
  
“But ---!”  
  
“He’s right, Arnwald.”, Yalene interrupted him before the Shallyan could protest any more. Everything that young priest of Verena had said was not also true, but also the most sensible course of action that she could think of. “I cannot go home again. Whatever I do now, it can’t be in this town.”  
  
“No.” Arnwald shook his head vigorously, and for a moment, he almost looked like he wanted to reach for her hands. That he didn’t stung, somehow. “Nonononono. Not happening. We have lost people today. We are not losing you. Your brothers will be heartbroken. Finja will cry a river. She loves you dearly. You know that, do you? She buries her nose in all those books because she wants to emulate you, because she looks up to you. You can’t leave.”  
  
It was heartbreaking to see him like this, and to leave all of them behind, but the Verenan was right. She had to leave, whether she liked it or not. So she let Arnwald have his say, until he ran out of reasons, to which she nodded attentively. Her answer was gentle, but firm. “Finja will heal eventually. As we all do. We always do.” She then extended her hand towards him, and finally, he took it, squeezing it a little too tightly before letting it go. For a moment there, she thought that there was acceptance in his eyes, but he couldn’t help but worrying.  
  
“But … but Altdorf is half a world away. Who knows what will happen on the road, especially since you’re … you’re ...”  
  
“Dark Elf.” Florian answered quietly. “I will escort you. I need to report what happened here to my Order anyway, and you need an advocate right now. You wear a shape that is not welcome in the Empire of Man. Besides, you have some tomes and books that need to be brought to the Temple of Verena there.” So nice that he was trying to spare her feelings. But the truth was that she actually needed somebody to make sure that she was not slain by the next Watchman in a fit of panic. This danger was not lost on the Verenan. “We need to disguise you, and we need a plan, and a way to tell the truth without causing a panic and keeping your secret.”  
  
“That’s simple.” She said. “You tell the mayor that when you started searching for us, that you found me, and that I was still alive and could tell you what happened. Then, you mention that I am among the dead. None of this a lie as long as you carefully word it. As for the plan … Hochfels is close, and they have a larger church of Morr than we do. Florian, you go home, you borrow two horses, come back to me and then we travel to Hochfels. The second horse of course is officially for the priest of Morr you intend to bring to take care of the dead. I will hide out in Hochfels until you return, and then we ride towards Altdorf. As for a disguise ...” She stroked her chin pensively. “… Western women as well as Tilean women tend to wear heavy veils that obscure the face quite nicely when in mourning. I happen to possess one of those. I even know where it is – right in the drawer underneath the stockings.”  
  
“I’ll get it.” Wiebke nodded. “You and me are of the same height now. I wanted to get another mourning dress for the longest time, so you’ll get my old one. Let me just get some essentials for you.” In a way, Wiebke seemed glad to finally have a solution that was actionable, that there was something she could do. She had been helpless throughout the situation and had started to grow just as restless as her husband. So she rushed away, her task clear.  
  
Why, yes. Clothing was a splendid idea. She still felt helpless and overwhelmed … this all seemed so unreal. She wouldn’t even have time to attend the funerals of Leevke, Tjorben and Fynn.  
  
Or her own. What strange world she was suddenly living in. But they had a plan, one that seemed like it could work. So she would leave her home behind and travel to Altdorf at last.  
  
Arnwald addressed her again, his gaze burning with the intensity of a person who refused to lose too many friends in one day. “Promise me that you will return someday, if you are able.” That was a promise she made with a heavy heart, because she couldn’t say what the future would bring. But as soon as she was able, she wanted to return. Her small nod was cause enough for the Shallyan to smile, even if it was bittersweet.  
  
“One day.”, she lied, forcing herself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter changed very little from the first draft, although it is a bit controversial. After all, the main protagonist is basically killed in chapter 3.
> 
> I am aware that suddenly finding oneself in a more attractive body ticks a large Mary Sue box. Truth to be told, I never understood that particular plot device as a favourable change. I have as many body issues as the next person, but the sheer thought of jumping into another body is terrifying in my opinion, no matter how pretty the end result might be. YMMV, but to me, feeling joy about a change like this is baffling. 
> 
> This is one of the major topics in this fic -how much part of our appearance defines our identity, how much we are defined by others. Also, in the future, learning about Druchii culture through human eyes while being a part of it is something I'm excited about. Unfortunately, for this to happen, one part of the protagonists' identity had to die and will remain dead.
> 
> I'm not going to lie, this was a hard chapter to write and even harder chapter to revise. After all that grief the first two chapters gave me, I became rather attached to Leevke and Tjorben. Silly me.


	4. Safe Harbour

Hochfels was a quaint little town of fishers and traders, with a decent port and cobbled streets. It was smaller than Sturmhöhe, and definitely less prosperous. Still, the townsfolk were stout people in a slowly growing community, being at the edge of the Empire and at the same time a conveniently placed port.  
  
Quite frankly, Yalene wondered why the townsfolk were so poor when their main income and asset – fish – was plentiful, even now that the sea was littered with floating ice sheets. All in all, she liked it here, although she could have done without the pungent smell of fish gone bad. There was one particular fisher who regularly shouted at his colleagues offering constructive criticism towards the freshness of his wares, and as a result of explosive tempers, regular fish-fights ensued. It was wise to keep away from this part of the market.  
  
As for the plan she and her compatriots had made, it went as well as one would have hoped. After a heartfelt farewell with the Shallyan Reijnders household, Florian Schröder had escorted her to this town, only to go straight to the next temple of Morr to ask for the local priests for help. He had been gone since this morning now with a small contingent of Morrians to tend to the dead of Sturmhöhe. He would be back in a few days, or so he had assured her, to accompany her to their destination: Altdorf. Until then, she was on her own and strongly advised to keep her identity and the change thereof secret. Yalene had to admit to herself that she hadn’t seen this young man before, but Verena bless her priest for being this calm and level-headed. This young man had been challenged with a bizarre situation and had managed it in a beautifully sensible fashion that showed wisdom far beyond his years.  
  
She was currently wearing an ill-fitting mourning dress that hung on her frame like a bag, only to stretch tightly across the chest. Her black veil served her adequately in hiding her features well enough; it was sometimes hard to make out other peoples features or details, but that was the price of not being recognised. In return, her own face was obscured; one could identify her as a woman, could see the pale skin and black hair, that she was young and maybe that her features were fine, but little else. As far as she knew, the people around her took her for a Reikland visitor in mourning anyway, and as it was their nature, the Nordlanders, lazy mouths as they infamously were, took it as a cue to talk to her even less than usual.  
  
Therefore, her veil had created a private little world for her, which was strangely comforting. Her presence was acknowledged, but she was barely talked to. In the world of Man, she was a spectator now, and nobody could see what she had become.  
  
Originally, she had just meant to sit by the town’s water fountain right in front of the town hall to catch up on her reading, and since was not willing to leave her most treasured possession, her father’s grimoire, in an inn, she slung the bag with it over her shoulder and then went to get some fresh air and intellectual nourishment. It was clearly the smartest course of action to take all three scrolls she had brought and make her decision when she was at the fountain, with people surrounding her. Or perhaps she would not read at all and just try to make sense of the last few days. It had been only this morning that Florian Schröder had left her to her devices with the promise to return within seven days’ time. That was plenty of time to muse about the events of the last few days, about all those people they had lost, the appearance of Dark Elves and their ritual, and her own ‘demise’, if it could be called such. Currently, she still tried to fathom the cause of these strange occurrences, but she could only conclude that with her fumbling attempts in magic, she had successfully released the Witch Hunter from this spell he had been under, and that he had killed the sorceress in the best - or worst - moment in regards to the ritual. After all, death of the magic-user tended to cut any ritual short. A common side effect, she determined, was the release of magical energies so strong that they had crushed the life out of everybody in the vicinity. Why she was spared and in the wrong body … well, that could only be attributed to an accident. Perhaps some remnant of the purpose of the ritual corresponded to that, which would explain much, since she had been the last victim to be sacrificed.  
  
What a morbid thought.  
  
After she had found herself in a quiet, undisturbed room in an inn after Florian had left, she had cried for hours, mostly mourning for Leevke. Unlike her, the priestess had been bold, brave and defiant to the end. Yalene had always admired that bravery and no-nonsense attitude about her and also had to reluctantly admit to herself that she herself was evidently spun of a different silk – a less heroic and more tearful and melancholic silk, one might add. She had spent that particular afternoon drowning in her own grief and loss. In hindsight, this was a little odd. She had always been proud of her own composure, and never cried that much or that hard, no matter the pain she was feeling. This time, however, it felt like an invisible, continuously bleeding wound, leaving her with lingering and frightfully intense pain. Even now, as she was walking the street, she could still feel a needle of pain in her heart, even if she didn’t think about the events of the last days at all.  
  
Her perception of the world around her had shifted also, even without the veil covering her face. When she had made her way through the woods, she had already noticed how sharp her senses seemed to be all of a sudden, to the point where it was almost overwhelming. The same could be said about the stench of rotten fish when she had smelled it upon her arrival. It had taken all of her willpower not to turn her horse around at that point, or jump off it and throw up, which would have been supremely embarrassing. She could also feel the fabric on her skin keenly; she wouldn’t have thought of the dress she was currently wearing as rough, but the elven body was apparently not satisfied with this. It didn’t chafe, per se, but she did feel the weight and fabric on her skin more keenly. In a private moment of washing, she had even tentatively started to touch herself in the nether regions, the pleasant sensations flooding her body had been too overwhelming to continue. When she had done so before, in her human body, she had either felt very little or even nothing. Sometimes, pleasuring herself had helped her to go to sleep, but the sensation had always been more like the delightful buzz when slightly inebriated by two glasses of wine, not an intense release, but rather a steady building of pleasure that had left her more slumberous. At the end of a day, the rush of a good story, a particularly tasty piece of cake or a fast ride on a horse had given her more joy and had proven to be much more tempting to her.  
  
These new feelings were quite vexing, if she was completely honest. She had even caught herself eyeing the physique of the local blacksmith, who, true to his profession, was remarkably well-muscled. In other times, she would have appreciated the ‘empirical evidence of a set beauty standard’, and enjoyed the aesthetics of a well-shaped human body without putting any value to it. It was just like looking at art – if it was pleasing to the eye, it was all well, but it meant nothing if there was no substance to it. The sheer thought that she might become more shallow was frightening. She didn’t want to judge people on their attractiveness. People were born pretty or plain without any effort of their own; in addition, beauty was such a fickle and fleeting thing. The mind and spirit were things that endured, and that really mattered. She had understood that a long time ago. Her body ought to understand this as well.  
  
But she never arrived at the fountain. Instead, it was a spectacle at the harbour that drew her attention and that made her veer from her path. It was already dusk, with the lampers going to work to light the streetlamps, and people were going home to their families, to dinner and to rest from the hardships of their day. But this was also the time for some fine traditions, like the one Yalene witnessed when she joined the knot of people cheering a young man who was enthusiastically sprinkling himself with seawater, dancing in circles and loudly proclaiming his eternal devotion to his woman and their upcoming marriage. This was the local ritual to torture a bachelor shortly before their wedding day, with the bride-to-be absent. It was a fun tradition, and the poor lad had to dance and sprinkle himself with seawater until a maiden kissed him free. Usually, this was done by a child or young teen, but any unmarried woman was eligible.  
  
Smiling, Yalene joined the clapping and cheering, and from the look of it, the crowd as well as the bachelor were having a wonderful time. She even recognized a priest of Sigmar in the crowd whom she happened to know, a man with a square jaw and yellow robes over his armour. Unlike the more traditional Sigmar branches, he hadn’t shaved his head, instead wearing his golden mane in numerous thin braids and had done the same with his long beard. This broad-shouldered man, aside from the tattoo on his face and all the markings that identified him as a priest of a notoriously strict and unforgiving order, was none other than Leenert Holthusen, the local wandering priest of Sigmar infamous for his laid-back attitude and his penchant for having slept on just about any couch or guest-bed in the area. Years ago, he had even once enjoyed Yalene’s hospitality and had proven himself to be a humble guest, although he had snored so loudly, the tremors that infernal sound had sent through her house must have caused the dry paint to trickle from the walls.  
Currently, he was thoroughly enjoying himself, pint in one hand, laughing and chatting like everybody else. In fact, Yalene found herself standing beside that priest, feeling strangely comfortable in his presence.  
  
“The poor sod has been at it for an hour.”, he told her as an aside before he turned away.  
  
Obviously, her services as a maiden had just been requested. At least, she thought she looked young enough now to be one. Did it count? It should count. Hence it counted.  
  
She almost felt a bit giddy at the sheer thought of it, but it seemed more than anything like she belonged to these people, humans, despite her private little world that the veil created. Boldly, she stepped forward, gave a nod to tradition and to the friend of the groom-to-be – the one that had to constantly supply buckets of seawater - that she wanted to free the poor lad, and received a friendly, encouraging nod in return. There, permission was granted, and so she strode towards, smiling so broadly that it was visibly even under the veil. For Westerners, a woman in mourning kissing a groom-to-be free would have been a scandal; thank Sigmar for Northerners and their laid-back attitudes.  
  
The young man stopped in his incessant sprinkling and shouting as she came closer. He looked really young, not even twenty, and probably had to get the permission of his parents to marry his girl. His light brown hair had been tied back in a ponytail – good boy – and only the tiniest hint of beard was blossoming on his face. His face was bland, but his smile was kind and lit up his whole face and eyes. Winking before he carefully lifted up her veil to her nose and no further, he allowed her to give him an innocent peck on the lips, barely enough to touch skin, not long enough to feel the warmth of his skin, and so innocuous that she had to remind herself that she was duty-bound to blush. Alas, she was unable to do it, but the warmth in her chest, the joy she took out of it was due to having partaken in this ritual, in this moment of time when people around her had simply been carefree, cheerful and hopeful.  
  
It was all over in a heartbeat, when the warning bells were rung.  
  
There were so many reasons why those bells would be rung in the harbour, the most dangerous and common one being fire, or fire on one of the ships lying at anchor. It could also mean that an attack was imminent, but by whom? No matter what happened, it meant that the Watchmen and any stationed soldiers and militia were now scrambling to get into their armour and to their posts. Since the Watch also did double duty as supplemental firefighters, and spirited ones at that, there were suddenly so many people scurrying around that it was impossible to see the organized patterns without knowing them.  
  
They needn’t have bothered, because the cause of the bells being rung emerged behind the cliffs, as if they had just been waiting for dusk for their surprise attack. The sight of black sails made Yalene’s heart sink. Everybody knew the stories, but rarely did she think that they were true. Black sails were used by Dark Elf pirates.  
  
Again, it was Dark Elves. This had to be connected with the incident near Sturmhöhe. Where they searching for their sorceress? But why here? And why wasn’t there a warning by the light vessels and scouts nearby?  
  
She watched as the ships sailed closer, far too close for her taste. She only noticed the chaos of panicked townsfolk fleeing to safety when she felt an armoured hand on her shoulder, and looked at the familiar, tattooed face of the Sigmarite filled with concern. “Miss, you should hide. Quickly now.” He gave her a gentle push into the direction away from the port, away from the Dark Elves that were about to descend. It was good that Leenart had done so, that he had bothered to take the time to talk to her, a stranger to his eyes. She hadn’t noticed how much she was shaken and that she had been standing unmoving, just watching the incoming threat come closer and closer. The words of the priest made her shake off her fear-induced paralysis, but she was still trembling as she nodded towards him, turned around and briskly walked away.  
  
Soldiers and local militiamen were hurrying past her, and she could see the pure terror, even despair on their faces. They thought that they were outmatched, and if that was so, Yalene couldn’t tell. But the terror of the reputation of Dark Elf corsairs was enough to strike fear into their hearts, no matter how the reality might look like. But she could hear in the background how the Sigmarite tried to rally them. “Take heart! Trust in Sigmar, trust in yourself! The realm of Man will never yield to barbaric pirates!”, he bellowed, and even Yalene, as she walked away, had to admit that the steely determination and passion in his words had touched her.  
  
Even as she tried to look for a spot to hide without barging into any house or enter a building that was already barricaded, she saw how the few wooden defence towers were manned by wide-eyed men and women with fear in their eyes and unsteadiness in their hands. Yalene decided to hide behind a merchant stall, where she could still see the harbour, and where the armed men and women tried to form lines of defences. But it all went down so fast, it made her head spin. She had learned that ship combat was a slow business, where one had to act with caution and thoughtfulness. But this was different. Before anybody could know it, before the lines were properly formed, before people could even _think_, the Dark Elves clad in their green cloaks and black leathers descended upon them like a wave, shot them down with their repeater crossbows before shields could be raised. She heard how commands were shouted, but the lines broke down quickly as people were killed like flies. Those who had the rotten sense of standing in the general vicinity and hadn’t left the harbour were either simply knocked out or caught with nets. How demeaning was it to catch a person with a thing meant for animals?  
  
The fighting would draw closer, that much she knew, and in her fear she did what seemed to be the best idea: Keep moving, away from the harbour, towards the city gates. She should have done so immediately and taken refuge in the forest, and perhaps it was not too late. Around her, the townspeople were running, either carrying water since the Dark Elves had quickly started to set several buildings and fishing boats aflame, or to get themselves to safety, wherever that might be. Since the fires were now burning, there was no building that was safe. Unlike most of the townspeople, while still panicked, Yalene moved carefully and more slowly. It took some time navigating the narrow streets of Hochfels until she could see the city gates. She didn’t stop in her sprinting, hoping that the few militiamen left would just let her pass at the open gate. She also saw how the Watchmen closest to the gates seemed to shout to hurry to her and other townsfolk who tried to run, just like her. his gaze was transfixed at the fleeing people, shouting something unintelligible. Suddenly, that Watchman was cut down by a heretofore unseen attacker suddenly emerging from the shadows.  
  
The militia had never had the opportunity to close these gates, as another wave of dark-clad Dark Elves was making the most silent charge that one could ever imagine, consisting of flashing blades gleaming in the sun, the only sounds being steel meeting flesh and the dying gasps of utterly surprised men. What followed thereafter was a charge towards everybody in the vicinity, the people being trapped in this town just as they were in the harbour. It was such a brutal display, just like at the harbour, that Yalene fled to the next side street and cowered behind a crate, shaking like a leaf and praying that they wouldn’t find her.  
  
Brave woman of the Empire, she.  
  
Who could have known that these bastards would use such a thing as military strategy to attack such a small, unimportant town as Hochfels? The fighting was now everywhere, and it was only a matter of time until she was discovered or chased out of her hiding spot through fire and smoke. But what to do? She pulled her shoulder bag with her scrolls closer, as if they would offer some protection. Dark Elves were pillaging this town, and she looked like one of them. Perhaps, if she could just walk by with enough confidence, she could pass those Druchii towards freedom. Since there were currently none of her fellow humans in sight, this was a plan that might work, and since she wasn’t responsible for anybody but herself, she decided that this was her chance. Precisely speaking, this was her only chance, if she wanted to survive and avoid a fate worse than death.  
  
Her hands were still shaking when she pulled the veil from her face that had served as an effective protection, and tucked it away safely. She also took the time to rearrange her hair so that her pointed ears were now clearly visible. Then she started striding, slowly, unflinchingly and deliberately through all that carnage, the screaming townspeople and their attackers. It felt like she was sleepwalking, taking steps with the security of a person who was not thoroughly aware of their surroundings. In fact, in that state, the sounds of battle and death around her seemed to recede, like they were only reaching her through a thick fog. She brushed past some women who didn’t pay her much thought, as did a Dark Elf swinging blood-coated mace.  
  
To avoid her fellow humans, she had to take the way through the side streets, and indeed, the second Dark Elf warrior she passed even saluted her, then left her to her own devices while looking for new prey. But a few moments later, she still ended up cornered unexpectedly. She didn’t know how, since everything she had attempted to do was to avoid exactly this kind of situation. It seemed like she awoke out of some form of daydream, and felt just as dizzy as she was cornered by three desperate-looking, dishevelled men, simple labourers who had taken up tools, a hammer, a club, anything to fight for their dear lives against the Dark Elves. Now they had found one, unarmed, but that didn’t mean anything for people who were so afraid that they could barely think, who were acting on blind rage. Yalene tried to back off, take a few steps back and raise her empty hands, but it was in vain.  
  
Before they could charge her, one of them was violently stopped when a heavy tug went through his body, only to reveal a bolt in his chest. His fellow labourer met the same fate of death by crossbow bolt, although he found his in his neck, gurgling as he collapsed on the ground. The last one of the men tried to shout something as his fellow labourers fell, but before he could do so, he was disposed brutally and bloody through a long dagger slicing through the chin directly into his head. The Druchii who had killed him had still no trouble pulling his blade out of the man’s skull, watching at the twitching corpse with cold satisfaction. Before Yalene knew it, two Dark Elves with crossbows stepped out of the shadows, looking towards the one with the blade. They all wore black leather underneath a green cloak fashioned from some sort of lizard skin, their skin ghastly pale, wearing perfectly reasonable helmets. The third one however carried himself with an air of authority and command that struck Yalene as the most troublesome of the trio. His armour and clothing seemed slightly more elaborate and to contain more purple hues, while he also appeared to be tall and imposing. For a lithe and lean elf, he also seemed to possess a wiry strength, while his pale face was tattooed with little runes on his cheekbones. Perhaps he was muscular, perhaps he was ugly, perhaps he was handsome. Yalene couldn’t tell, all those elves looked the same to her. But she could tell him apart from his appearance, his tattoos and his demeanour exuding the confidence of a man gleefully victorious. It was also him who addressed her first in a firm, commanding tone.  
  
“You there. What are you doing among humans?”  
  
The absolute last thing she wanted was to interact with any Druchii, thank you ever so much, especially since they were in the middle of pillaging and burning this quaint town. This counted double for this bastard there who seemed to enjoy the arterial spray that had coated his cloak. For the moment, these battle-drunk butchers at least didn’t seem to see her as either victim or threat. She wanted to keep it that way, and keep them away from her. What to do? From the perspective of this man who obviously held some authority, the question was a legitimate one, and it seemed best not to let him know how afraid she was or how much she felt herself trembling with fear. Furthermore, even if she answered this man, her accent would inevitably give her away. Her Druhir was untested, by no means could she ever pose as a native speaker. ‘_Think fast, Yalene.’, s_he thought, mustering all her strength and confidence to project the illusion that she was being a stoic, untouchable ice queen. If somebody would have a funny accent in Reikspiel, she would simply think them to be from a faraway province. Perhaps it was the same with Druhir, and she didn’t see how she could get out of this without trying. Something told her that this man was not accepting pantomime as a valid means of communication.  
  
In the moments she had needed to get her bearings, the Dark Elf whom she assumed was some sort of officer or leader had taken off his helmet and was about to approach her, when the few organized men of the local militia left alive made a valiant attempt of attack on this particular three elves, who were forced to defend themselves. In all this chaos and carnage, Yalene was able to react, eschewing the pesky first moment of shock to quickly and quietly slip away into the next side street. When she turned to check if she was in any way pursued. She was not, but as she looked over her shoulder, she saw the leader of that little group of Dark Elves and their eyes met.  
She could see his features clearly, as well as the curious look on his face as he held her gaze for a long, meaningful moment before he had to parry an attack from one of her countrymen again with all the grace and brutality so typical for his kind.  
  
As for Yalene, she followed her instinct and ran, faster than she thought she could. Only when she could hide herself behind a burning building, feeling the heat of the flames, she was able to stop and clear her thoughts to finally think. She had to escape, and provided she could avoid humans or their attention in this burning village full of people in panic and beset by blood-thirsty elves, there was a possibility.  
  
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she took to her former strategy, walking through the battlefield as if she belonged there, as if she was barely touched by it. This time, however, she returned to the harbour. It was counter-intuitive, but to try her earlier strategy again and trying to escape through the gate seemed to be her only chance to slip out. It would be crawling with Dark Elves and she had to dodge that elven commander, and as a human, there would be no chance at all to escape. As a Dark Elf, however, she just might be able to.  
  
She had no idea how she managed it, her heart racing in her chest, but outwardly exuding the same, stoic façade that had helped her so many times in her life. Again, she managed to dim her perception and shut out the terrible bloodshed that happened all around her. When she arrived at one of the main streets leading to the gate, still in this dreamlike state that protected her senses, she saw with a knot in her stomach that she had been right, unfortunately.  
  
One of Yalene’s younger brothers, Hendrik, happened to be an officer in the Imperial Navy. He had once told her that even on sea, there was one principle of war that applied: people didn’t need to fear the defenders, the desperate men and women fighting for their lives or for their freedom. The army or crew to be feared was the one who was clearly winning. He had told her that the victors in the late stages of a battle, when the tide had clearly turned, became nothing more than brutal animals, butchering, torturing and raping everything in their wake. Hendrik had described it as some sort of ‘boiling blood madness’, when the carnage around the person consumed them thoroughly, leaving only a hungry animal thoroughly consumed by rage, blood, conquest and lust. The whole world turned into a crimson spectre, the concepts of right and wrong, of morals, of ethics, of personal integrity all washed away.  
  
Yalene had always thought that this explanation had been a cheap excuse for atrocities committed needlessly after battle, but now she saw this ‘blood madness’ first-hand, with Dark Elf corsairs as the victors, with those elves looking more like avatars of pain and death, more like creatures than civilized people. She had to keep her eyes cast down while she desperately tried not to see what was transpiring, while she was led through the streets to the harbour, through ash and smoke. A few buildings were already burning, ostensibly to smoke any survivors out, while Yalene tried not to look, but unfortunately, the sounds spoke for themselves. As she walked through the harbour, she could clearly listen to the sounds of every atrocity that one being can do to another done, until her heavy heart, her dread and her disgust made her feel numb. She passed bodies, far too many to stop and identify them, although it made her wonder what had happened to the friendly Sigmarite. But one, one body that she had to pass stood out to her – it was the lifeless, blood-stained body of a young man, scarcely any beard on his face and eyes closed. The sight of the groom-to-be from earlier, whom she had kissed not an hour ago felt like a knife in the heart at first and left a strange emptiness behind. She had no time to mourn the poor boy, as she had to press on.  
  
Fortune smiled upon her. The Dark Elves, as she had hoped, paid her no mind aside from the odd curious glance. Too consumed were they with ‘securing the plunder’, the captured people being dragged onto the ships towards a fate possibly worse than death. If one was focused on prey, why would one take notice of an idle ‘ally’, like her? A few even stepped aside to allow her to pass; apparently, her countenance was convincing enough. When she finally reached the gate, the area around was littered with bodies, but otherwise largely abandoned. It was surprisingly easy to just pass through, the few Dark Elves around ignoring her or barely taking notice. When she walked into the forest, she just ran, ran as fast as she could and didn’t look back.

  
*

  
The snowy forest was serene, most certainly too quiet even given the cold season. She was exhausted after having run for so long and then pressing on and on for fear of pursuers. When looking back, she was single-mindedly focused on her escape and the delivery of her spirit walnut into safety, for some reason that she would never understand. It didn’t occur to her to circle back to Sturmhöhe, which would have been logical. Instead, she could only think of the one mission she had been attempting, the one mission that had caused all of her troubles, the one and only thing that was left for her to do. Besides, she feared that Dark Elves might have followed her and picked her hometown for their next target.   
  
The first hours - Yalene didn’t know how much time passed - she was just obsessed with that thought of fulfilling her mission. But as she noticed how she calmed down, rational thought returned to her, and she noticed that she had just been so focused on getting away from the grisly scene that she hadn’t noticed how far away she had gotten. In the darkness, the twigs of the trees seemed to lengthen, sometimes reaching out for her like long, spidery fingers. The snow slowed her steps even more, much to her chagrin. Would she even be able to circle back to Sturmhöhe if she wanted to?  
  
Quite frankly, she was lost.  
  
Yalene was shivering, pulling her cloak closer around her frame. They had pressed forward in a brutal pace in order to get away from Dark Elves, into the forest that she was certain was the Laurelorn Forest. They hadn’t seen a soul, were both hungry and dead tired. She had heard the sounds of a small stream not frozen for a few minutes now; it should be close so they could finally take a break.  
  
It was difficult to even contemplate the sheer insanity of the last days, especially considering that only now, her awareness of time had returned. Why the local elves hadn’t attacked her just yet, she didn’t know, as she had lost her veil during her escape and didn’t have any other way to obscure her features or even race.  
  
But there were things she had to do before she could move forward to the next human village, although her situation was undoubtedly dire. She had left most of her supplies in Hochfels, her only possessions being money, the spirit walnut safely tucked away, a few scrolls and her father’s heavy, heavy grimoire in addition to the clothes on her back. She also noticed only now how hungry she was, but could do nothing but pluck a few Silian-berries from the snow-covered trees. Those berries did nothing to alleviate hunger, did nothing to nourish the body whatsoever and were likely to cause a stomach-ache when eaten, but they did keep the teeth clean and healthy and were growing all year. However, munching on something, _anything_, still invoked the illusion of something to eat, which helped. Hunger hurt and was constantly on her mind, clouding her thoughts.  
  
Yalene felt the spirit walnut in her pocket. This journey had started with a lost spirit trying to find its way home, and she had stupidly given a promise, one she still intended to keep. With night closing, it was hard for her to navigate the dark, and she was not only weak, starving and exhausted, she just couldn’t do a step more without rest. That was dangerous, though – in that kind of cold, she could certainly freeze if she didn’t produce some source of heat. While weighing her options, she also determined that she would leave the spirit here in hopes that this was the right place and call it a promise kept.  
  
Carefully lowering the spirit seed to the ground, she watched it sink into the snow, a somewhat anticlimactic end to a long and perilous journey. Afterwards, for the first time since she inhabited this body, she drew the strands of magic in her hand in the hopes of weaving a glowing light of magic with a few whispered words and practised gestures. To her surprise, the strands of magic were almost eager to heed her call, forming a soft, glowing ball of light hovering slightly over her head, so that she could at least illuminate her immediate surroundings.  
  
She had always wondered if the ability to see and draw on magic was a talent of the soul or the blood. Before her change, she had always been leaning toward both to be true, but now … now she wasn’t so certain. There was so much about this world that she did not understand and would never understand if she didn’t gather a bit of firewood. The elves of this forest hadn’t shown themselves until now, and if they found her now because of a little light, it would be a clear case of unavoidable destiny. If faced with the choice between being shot to death by elves or freezing to death, she had to admit that she wasn’t overly picky.  
  
She was now searching around, gathering a few frost-crusted branches with little hope that those would burn at all. It was then when she felt a warm breeze which warmed her up immediately although she had been chilled to the bone. When she turned around, she witnessed the most singular occurrence. There was an oak tree rapidly growing out of the snow, melting anything around it instantly. It was like a breath of life chasing winter away, warm, kind and a little wild. Grass, bushes and flowers started blooming in a heartbeat, while Yalene backed off, eyes transfixed on this strange transformation that the spirit walnut that she had dropped there was making.  
  
After a few minutes, the little clearing had turned itself into a small island of vigorous spring in the midst of the silence of winter, the leaves of the now mighty oak tree rustling. To Yalene’s witchsight, the clearing was bursting with life, the green wind blowing strong. For all the blood, death and misery she had experienced in the last days, she was now witnessing a miracle of this world, staring at the tree in wonder.   
  
So that was what the spirit at the graveyard had been? She didn’t think that it was a dryad, but she had had the distinct suspicion that this spirit seed had housed the soul of an elf. Could it be that this was true? If so, then a soul was life itself. Or perhaps it was just this particular soul?  
  
Whatever it was, it meant her no harm, while its presence had possibly guaranteed her survival in this dangerous forest. Yalene also determined that she was way too tired to give it any further thought or take one more step. The tree glowed with warmth and life like hearthfire, something that was meant to ease a weary mind and a worn body; it made her believe with all fibre of her being that she was safe at this place, that she was granted a rare moment of reprieve. So she laid herself down propped against the oak; it was as warm as a human body, and thus feeling protected against the cold, she allowed herself to slip into a restful slumber.


	5. Allegiance

When Yalene awoke, she thought she had just had the strangest dream: She had dreamt that she had awoken in the forest and had gotten lost, turning always in another direction than she wanted to. The dream had culminated into her leaving the forest on paths unknown, only to run into the next patrol, promptly being accused of witchcraft and thrown into a dungeon.   
  
As she opened her eyes, she realized that this was not the dream, nor had the nightmare beforehand, the one of her fleeing the scene of a terrible battle wearing the skin of a beautiful monster. Her eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness of her damp cell, the only light of torches in the hallway crawling up at the edge of the bars. Yalene shivered in the cold, propping herself up sluggishly, feeling as exhausted as if she had run miles and miles. Her lips felt dry and cracked, and her throat felt like she had swallowed fine desert sand leaving scratch marks in her body. There was no way for her to determine if it was day or night, and since the prison warden didn’t think a Dark Elf should be fed, she felt weaker and weaker, until she had stopped moving at all, having curled up in the corner of her cell that was still loosely covered with a little straw had been thrown into her cell.  
  
Sometimes, the prison warden, a coarse man with a cruel smile, tried to taunt her by making a show of the other bowls he left for the prisoners in other cells, only to pointedly leave her out. But in truth, Yalene thought that he was afraid. He was too afraid to go near her cell or even open the door ever so slightly to bring her food, and only if he feared that she could die of thirst, he put a cup full of snow at her bars and hurried away, as if he was afraid that even having touched the cup would have given her an opening to harm him with curse or claw. She had also seen the hate reflected on his dimly-lit face; still he didn’t dare to approach her or do more than shout a few obscenities at her from a safe distance.   
  
Yalene had come to know hunger pangs and thirst in the past, but never like this. In long winters after bad harvests, she had tightened her belt and fasted, in summers with dried rivers and creeks, she had found a way and simply ventured deeper into the forest just like anybody else. But here, she could do nothing but endure. The thirst sometimes conjured up pleasant images of friends lost and left talking to her about things she didn’t understand, but enjoyed nonetheless. The hunger twisted inside her like a draining, hurtful and poisonous snake leeching all strength out of her. Sometimes, she felt too weak to lift her head, and felt her spirits only return when a cup of snow appeared at her bars. She had always said the words that water was life, but she had never felt this truth so much as when the sweet feeling of melting snow touched her tongue and soothed her.   
  
The moment she had lost her veil either in the forest or during the sacking of Hochfels, she should have known that the moment would come. When she had awoken in the soothing embrace of the spirit tree, she had tried to make her way through the Laurelorn Forest, but by some strange coincidence, hadn’t been able to find her way through it. Faster than she should have, she had heard waves slapping against the shores and had seen the treeline in the distance. Given the position, she had only been able to deduce that she had reached the other side of the forest, entering a whole other province. For some reason, she had passed the river Schaukel, borders between Westerland and Nordland and a sizable distance within the Laurelorn Forest including a coastal area that was known goblin territory without remembering how she could have found her way there. In fact, she still didn’t know. She only knew that she had been politely shown the door by this enchanted forest and taken the hint, hiding her features with the hood of her cloak. She had reached the road to Aarnau, one of the larger towns at the coast of Westerland, where she had hoped to find shelter, transportation and lunch in no particular order. First, she had encountered a Westerland patrol on the road in their distinct black and white uniform. But before she could inform them of marauding Dark Elves, which in hindsight, might not have been the brightest idea, she had been caught. Then, things had gone south very fast, somebody crying something about her being a cultist, then stuffing her into a cart to a destination unknown and then into this dungeon before she had even time to think. There had been no trial, not even something more than the superstitious outcry at the sight of her elven ears and the paleness of her skin.   
  
At first, she hadn’t been able to decide if the pain of ravenous hunger and thirst was worse than the throbbing pain at the back of her right hand, where she had received the brand of a cultist. Branding was not done often in the Empire, since justice was swift and in severe cases mostly final. But in past times, prisoners used for forced labour or galley prisoners had been branded with a number on their wrist. In some provinces, like Westerland, they still used this system for prisoners sentenced to death by hard labour or otherwise, who were branded with the coat-of-arms of the particular nobleman in whose name the judging was done either on the back of the hand or forehead. So Yalene counted herself lucky that it was only her hand that had been mutilated. The burning sensation had receded after what felt like an excruciating eternity, although she still felt heat and sharp pain on her skin. Up to this point, she had not even been able to inspect her hand for the lack of light. In her weakened state, she also hadn’t been able or even willing to use what little magic she knew, either for distraction or lighting purposes. What good would it do her, either way? Even if she could find a way out of this prison, she would never be able to interact with humans again without this mark on her hand damning her to the gallows or the next pyre.   
  
In the darkness of her cell, when she had slipped in and out of consciousness, dark thoughts had visited her like unwelcome and persistent relatives, clawing their way into her skull until she couldn’t ignore them anymore. Thoughts about loss and been swirling around, thoughts about guilt of surviving when nobody else did, even more guilt about her fleeing the scene instead of doing anything to help when Hochfels was sacked. But most of all, she sincerely questioned why she was still alive. Elves were damned, their souls mere morsels for the Dark Prince … had she condemned herself to this fate when she foolishly did not follow Leevke’s example? She had allowed herself to be sacrificed, she had not properly read the omens, she had not taken precautions when she could have done so.   
  
Even now, she felt entirely useless and hopeless. That she wasn’t fed made her miserable, which made her question why she was so greedy that she only thought of food and drink like an animal, and with some bitter amusement, noted that at least with nothing in her belly, she didn’t produce any waste worth noting. She had been denounced as a chaos worshipper for her appearance only, for being a Dark Elf. Wasn’t this true? Perhaps there had been Chaos involved in her creation, so the sentence fit in a way.  
  
Her thoughts were about to turn darker and darker turns for the hundredth time in what seemed like an eternity of solitude, when she heard steps in the corridor outside. That in itself was not notable, nor was the fact that these steps stopped close to her bars. Every now and then, the prison wardens gathered during what Yalene presumed was their shift changeover to stand and gawk at her for a few seconds, but always backed off quickly. In the beginning, she had attempted to talk to them, but had never gotten a response that would have qualified as a complete sentence. Sometimes, it had been laughter, sometimes frightened and superstitious mumbling. But they had never talked to her specifically, just looked at her as if she were some sort of exotic animal.  
  
Today, it was different. The lock at her prison door was opened, and she saw the silhouettes of two or three people, both cloaked and hooded. The light of the lantern they had been taking with them blinded her, so she couldn’t see their faces, or anything at all. Lifting her hand to shield her eyes seemed too much of an effort, so she merely turned her head away and closed her eyes. But her cell had been opened, a thought that should have concerned her more, but all she felt was numbness. They had finally come to make her face judgement at last, it seemed.  
  
“So that’s her.”, one of the hooded men said. He possessed a pleasant, soothing voice that complimented the stilted quality of his speech patterns so typical for elven speakers of Reikspiel. A moment later, she heard him kneeling close to her, could feel the tips of his gloved fingers as he carefully touched her face, guiding her into the light of the lantern and forcing Yalene to blink. The elven man made a sound that was in shouting distance of a surprised gasp. “Wait a minute …”  
  
“Yes, this is indeed a Dark Elf. The patrols caught her after she had set a barn on fire. The farmer died in the blaze, poor man. No doubt a sacrifice to her Chaos Gods …”, the other man replied, clearly speaking through a handkerchief held against his mouth. His accent was flat, as it was common for Westerlanders, his nasal cadence making it appear almost comically posh and polished. That there had been a fire before she had been caught was news to Yalene, but it did explain why the guards had been overly zealous with their hunt. If they or any Sigmarites among them had found any trace of the Ruinous Powers in the barn or the farm, even a wayward talisman, any strange circumstance like the sudden appearance of an elf would be suspicious to them. She had been unfortunate, as simple as it sounded.  
  
“If she has really done that, why wasn’t she strong enough to escape this prison?”, the elf asked in a saccharine and at the same time mocking tone, taking the long pause that followed as answer enough. “Give me the plate. This was good thinking on my part, don’t you think? She looks half-dead. Some dangerous Chaos worshipper you have there.”  
  
While her eyes were still not adjusted to the brightness of a single lantern and therefore, she couldn’t see his face, Yalene was immensely thankful to this man and was at the same time ashamed to admit it. This was common decency from an elf, not a human, to at least not assume that she was responsible for all the evils in the world. That feeling intensified when she saw that said plate contained a cup of water that he carefully lifted to her lips so that she could take tiny sips. It was cool and tasted of clay; it was about the sweetest taste that she had ever had the pleasure to experience. Her true desire was to greedily down that cup of water in an instant, but some reasonable voice in the back of her head told her that if she did that, she wouldn’t be able to keep the water to herself and had to be careful. It took all of her discipline to keep herself poised, amazed at how much and at the same time how little energy she derived from a few sips of water. After that, her senses were assaulted once more when the elf slipped something into her mouth that Yalene was only able to identify as a honeycomb after a few seconds of sheer explosion of flavour and sweetness on her tongue. Again, it took all of her discipline not to simply swallow it, but to carefully and slowly wring every drop of honey out of it through pressure of her tongue. Just a little food and drink had become such a gesture of kindness to her, that even as the fog lifted and she was able to grasp some strands of rational thoughts again, she found herself clinging to the man’s upper arm, her head resting against his cuirass. Feeling kindness again, the simple humanity of having somebody, anybody as company was overwhelming as it was solely needed in her tiny cell. Before, nothing but her thoughts had bounced around in her skull while rotting away in this hole to be forgotten by the world, and forget the world in return. Just having another living, breathing being as company, one that provided a little, was a glimpse of hope that she had never seen this way. She felt the elf chuckle while still grasping his arm and praying that he wouldn’t leave so soon.  
  
“You are not exactly on a quest to power, aren’t you?” The elf spoke to her in his native tongue now, in a dialect that seemed a bit more harsh to her than her than it was usual, as if he spoke Reikspiel more often. From what she had heard, he was quite comfortable with the language of the Empire. His whisper could be felt close to her ear, as he stretched the words ever so slightly. “Listen to me, sister. Walk out of here this afternoon with the other prisoners, and I will take you away from here. Understood?”  
  
She nodded without truly understanding why she had to be left behind or why the other prisoners were brought away. She had feebly tried to explain to the guards that if she was to be treated like an elf, that she should fall under elven jurisdiction and be handed over to the elven embassy. But somehow, this had been a hilarious suggestion.  
  
Slowly, the elf rose, and it was hard to force herself not to cling to him desperately as if he were a piece of wood and she a drowning woman. Even to her eyes, this was just a little bit pathetic, especially since she hadn’t even replied to him and he had done little more than give her a little bit of sustenance. Who was he, anyway? She could see the beige cloak sweeping across the ground in the dim light as he left her in her cell, as well as his human companion. That High Elf had probably been from the elven embassy, and there was at last some justice to be had. It was impossible that he was something else, since only High Elves and Eonir dealt with humans. Wood Elves were isolationists and Dark Elves were enemies, as she knew all too well at this point. Still, why the clandestine comment? Why the challenge to walk any distance? Why couldn’t he just have picked her up and taken her to wherever he wanted to go?  
  
For a High Elf, he had also been surprised at her appearance as a Druchii, but astoundingly polite. He had called her ‘sister’ without any trace of irony. As far as she understood from her grasp of Eltharin, elves called each other relatives, cousins, brothers and sisters when they wanted to express some heartfelt spiritual companionship, when they wanted to invoke trust. They did this exclusively with other elves, as other races were apparently unsuited for an extension of trust this intimate. Still, he had called her ‘sister’. This touched her more deeply than she would have thought.  
  
But the thought alone that she didn’t have to stay in this tiny cell of eternal night, the thought to see the starlit sky again, to feel the wind on her skin, smell the scent of grass, feel the fabric of clean clothes or the surface of rough paper. She felt so weak, as if her legs were twigs that could never support her weight. But she could soon hear the commotion in the prison, that prisoners were led out of the building, one after the other. Her cell was opened as well, and it took so much strength out of her to rise and make her first few steps, as difficult as if she had unlearned walking, as if she were a toddler making the first, tentative and fumbling steps. But in the end, she rose to full height, straightened her shoulders, ignored her exhaustion, the pain and grief and took one uncertain step after the other. Her hands and feet were promptly chained, as it had been done with the other prisoners, but that alone was not enough to weaken her newly-found resolve.  
  
She and the other prisoners were led to a large hall, all of them human man in various states of deterioration, clad in rags in equally various states of deterioration. Her own appearance couldn’t be much better: her black dress was crusted with dirt, her skin felt as if covered by an uncomfortable layer of grime, and she didn’t even want to know how she smelled. She could feel that her hair was lanky and in disarray, but the same could be said about the poor souls that had to kneel with her on the ground. Even here, where the poorest of the poor and the condemned were gathered, she noted that even in this cluster of human filth, she was shunned and alone, and even these miserable people shied away from her. One man spat at her, a smirch of saliva landing right before her, and more than one dirty look was cast in her direction. It was not because she was the only woman in this little crowd of a little over a dozen people … it was her face, her ears, the mark on her hand and what it stood for that made her an outcast among outcasts, left alone even among the miserable and lonely.  
  
Yalene decided that it would be best to focus on her surroundings. Judging from the interior, the furniture pushed to the walls and covered with white sheets, the clean, wooden floor and the decorations and artwork on the window frames, she assumed that this was a nobleman’s mansion – a summer residence perhaps, or a nobleman’s hunting lodge. It also seemed that it had been deserted over winter, and the fact that a dungeon had been added to this mansion meant that it was in the possession of somebody important. The high ceilings and the presence of almost double the guards than prisoners told her as much. This was a spacious place, one that was meant as a retreat, the guards bearing the colours and coat-of-arms of Westerland and Aarnau in particular. She could also smell brine in the air and hear the flapping of waves, so the sea had to be within spitting distance.  
  
The guards looked at the captives with stone-faced countenance, but otherwise, it seemed like their presence was enough to keep a few emaciated prisoners in check. Yalene had no idea how much time she had spent in captivity, but she could see the sun shining kindly through the window, something that hurt her eyes still and left little stars and bright dots in her vision. But she could also see that there was still snow outside, although it was starting to melt.  
  
Her suspicions were confirmed when a man, flanked by two other guards and the prison warden who had taunted her so often entered the room. His clothes were fine and fashionable, his coat fur-lined. It was expensive to use dye of dark blue, so he had done just that without appearing overly decadent; his face was that of a gracefully aged man around Yalene’s age, wearing his silver hair short and rounding his well-groomed appearance. Everything about him seemed aristocratic to the point of pompousness, from the way he slightly raised his chin, how he looked down upon the filthy crowd, how he wrinkled his nose and how he demonstratively unfolded a large scroll. Even his voice and cadence supported that impression, with Yalene noting that she had heard that voice before, just a short while ago in the dungeons addressing the elf.  
  
“Freiherr Lothar Florentin van Leeuwen of Aarnau.” He was announced simply, because the audience was simple. Still, it was not enough to make a lasting impression on the crowd, who were looking at him out of tired eyes. The Freiherr, the city of Aarnau and the few surrounding lands being his only dominion, cleared his throat to address them all in this ridiculously ceremonial gathering.  
  
“Well met, friends.” The Freiherr looked at them like they were bugs that he had to deal with, and he somewhat enjoyed it like a cruel boy would enjoy squashing an ant. “Every single one of you has been condemned to the gallows, or in some cases, even the pyre.” He consulted his list and then pointed at the first prisoner, a bear of a man with simmering hate in his eyes.  
  
“Klaas Willems, found guilty of double murder.”, the Freiherr stated, only to be interrupted.  
  
“She _cheated!_ I brought _justice_ to her and her lover.” The man couldn’t continue when he received a hit from the blunt end of a halberd from the guard next to the nobleman. As the man whimpered, curled on the floor writhing in pain, he merely sniffed.  
  
“The verdict: Death.” Without missing a beat, the Freiherr stepped further, addressing the next prisoner. “Fiete de Groot. Murder and cannibalism.” There was an unspoken sound of disgust that the Freiherr wanted to make about the inconspicuous-looking man. “Verdict: Death.” The next man, a frightened Tilean, was found guilty of smuggling, resisting arrest and accidentally killing a guard in the process. Murder, rape, robbery and manslaughter were part of all verdicts spoken around here, sometimes contested by the prisoners, sometimes not so much. Still, most of those sentences seemed believable. There was one other person being accused of worship of the Ruinous Powers, and due to the tattoos of the eye of Tzeentch on the wrists of that man, Yalene was inclined to believe that accusation. Unlike the humans, she was not even given the courtesy of being named, just being accused and judged as a murderess, fire-starter and chaos worshipper. Just like with the cultist that had been addressed earlier, she saw a few of the guards and even prisoners spitting on the ground and mumbling prayers to blessed Sigmar.  
  
Grimly, Yalene thought that in the worst case, there was still a murderer, fire-starter and chaos worshipper on the loose while she was held for these crimes. With luck, they were even the same person. She also started to wonder if the elf she had met earlier would be keeping his promise, or if her mind jumbled by a pounding headache, thirst and starvation had been only imagining him. It was a frightful thought, but not so implausible scenario.  
  
Solemnly, the Freiherr rolled the scroll back into place and gave it to a nearby guard to address the condemned again. “You are dead.”, he proclaimed, pointing at one random man. “Dead.” He pointed at the next man, exclaiming more dramatically. “Dead.” The third man was pointed at. “Dead!” He opened his arms and gestured wildly. “Dead, dead, dead! You are _all_ DEAD!”  
  
Despite the ridiculousness of the theatrical proclamation, the room was so quiet, one could have heard a needle fall. The veracity of his words was not to be questioned, but there was more … a sense of upcoming doom in the air, like the stillness before a storm.  
  
As far as Yalene could tell, the Freiherr quite enjoyed himself, relishing in this scenario in which all eyes were fixated on him while he smiled impishly, leaning forward ever so slightly to conspiratorial whisper to the prisoners. “You were all sentenced to death, but I am inclined to give you a chance to live.” With a broad and self-indulgent and smug smile, he took a step back. “After all, we are all the children of Sigmar. You should be given a chance to atone in his name, and if you are strong and faithful enough, you will once more live good and godly lives. What say you?”  
  
He certainly had the fullest attention of the room, Yalene included. She didn’t trust this man, though. It was not lawful to spare a person sentenced to death, so what this nobleman was doing was quite clearly self-serving and profitable. Her fellow prisoners, however, were enthusiastic, to say the least.  
  
With a benevolent smile and soothing gesture, the Freiherr bid the room silent. “I think it is time that you meet my guests and your new masters, who will make your new life possible.” The thought occurred to Yalene that this speech, and indeed, the approval of his people was more important to him than the substance of whatever scene she was about to witness. For some reason, she thought that this nobleman needed to be justified, needed to know that whatever he would now doing with the prisoners, he would be doing with their blessing. Since he had not exactly told them of their eventual fate, Yalene thought this to be hypocritical. She was instantly proven right when she saw who exactly those guests were.  
  
The first person entering was tall and imposing, his skin ghastly pale and his hair, black like polished coal, was worn in a corsair’s topknot. His pointed ears marked him as much as an elf like his facial features, his height or the smooth and strangely alien way he moved, graceful like a cat-of-prey on the prowl. But it was the tiny runes on his cheekbones, the dark cloak, blackened cuirass and darkened attire that showed clear as day that this was a Dark Elf, accompanied by similarly clothed men, their eyes and steel sharp. Yalene could feel her heart sink, all her hope crushed this moment. Everywhere she went, Dark Elves appeared out of nowhere. Worse, she remembered the face of this particular man – it was the butcher who had stopped her in the alley in Hochfels. He might have saved her that day, but would have captured her just as well if given half the chance, nevermind that she had seen him work, that she had seen the sadistic glee in his eyes when slaughtering her fellow humans. And now, he was here … the last time she saw him, he was collecting slaves and crushing any resistance. He was not crushing resistance right now and looked more like he was about to do business, so that left one conclusion in this situation.  
  
The Freiherr was selling his people as slaves.  
  
While Yalene had still trouble moving and most certainly had trouble speaking, that thought, the practice appalled and disgusted her. The nobleman might have justified himself that he would only sell those already condemned to death, but that didn’t matter. Death was honest, but slavery under Dark Elves war torture, it was crushing the spirit with the vain hope that one day, they could escape. What kind of life was that? She had never heard of anybody escaping the Druchii; she had only heard of atrocities committed by them, and people having been dragged screaming onto their dark ships with their dark sails, never to be seen again. What the nobleman did was injustice, and the Druchii themselves were injustice.  
  
The room had gotten very quiet as the Dark Elf and the Freiherr greeted each other as the wary, cautious business partners they were. The feeling of dread frightened people into silence, paralysed them into compliance. Polite and cautious pleasantries were exchanged before the Dark Elf, evidently the leader of his cadre, stepped closer to her and bent down, an amicable smile on his face.  
  
“Hello again, sister. Do you see me now?”  
  
She had assumed by now that the visitor in her cell earlier had been him … she hadn’t noticed that he had been no High Elf at all, hadn’t seen his face or had seen any signs of him being a Druchii. No wonder he had called her ‘sister’, as he erroneously assumed that they were of the same race. While Yalene was busy glaring at him, the Dark Elf turned to one of his companions, who wore his hair in a similar fashion and sported a goatee.  
  
“That’s the bird that flew away from us in that ash heap of a town. I’m dying to hear the story about that.” While his companion smiled politely, the Druchii leader addressed her again in Eltharin, drawing a puzzled look by Freiherr van Leeuwen.  
  
“I’m Ruvol Blackwater. What’s your name?”  
  
“Yalene.”, she answered curtly, her voice sounding weak and raspy, barely a whisper. She took care to pronounce her name the elven way, or at least how she thought an elf would use his melodic language to pronounce her name. It seemed to be convincing enough, though. Now it was her turn to exchange pleasantries with a Dark Elf. While the other prisoners were dragged outside by guard and Druchii alike, she remained kneeling on the floor, although one of the guards indeed followed a gesture by this Ruvol Blackwater, so that at least her chains were opened. Since the chains were only one of many things keeping her in place, she let it happened with astounding indifference, feeling numb through the whole experience.  
  
“That sounds nice. Listen to me, Yalene ...” She was still taken aback by the fact that this man whom she had mostly known through bloodshed now seemed so cultivated, amiable and downright friendly. The world was upside down, a Druchii cared more for her safety than a human. It was dizzying just thinking about that, all the while watchful of her surroundings. Blackwater was now gesturing to the back of the room, where she now spotted the unmistakable cover of her father’s grimoire. “Are these all of your possessions?”  
  
“The most precious one.”, she replied with some effort. It probably would have been smarter to just lie about a grimoire, of all things, but she couldn’t possibly see how lying her way out of this situation would benefit her, especially since she had no idea what was now about to happen now. It was abundantly clear that the prisoners were about to be shipped off as slaves. It appeared to her that she wouldn’t share that fate.  
  
“I will help you up in a minute. When I do, get behind me. Do you understand?” Oh dear, there was something more afoot here. Yalene nodded resignedly, thinking that evidently an elven appearance meant that things tended to happen to her, and not that she made things happen. She also received the distinct impression that it was the Dark Elves who did not want to harm her, which meant that her allegiance was there right now. If she would think more about it, she would feel more horrified. Satisfied with the exchange, Ruvol Blackwater turned to the Freiherr again, switching to Reikspiel fluidly.  
  
“She says the book is elven … it must be an old dialect.”  
  
The nobleman smiled politely. “So you will pay the agreed upon price?”  
  
Blackwater sighed overly resignedly. “I have no other choice. It seems like this woman and her book are a package. What did you say?”  
  
“Eighty gold crowns.”  
  
‘_Moron. A grimoire is worth more.’_, Yalene thought grimly. It was then when Ruvol Blackwater extended his hands towards her in a helpful fashion, a seemingly casual gesture. When she obediently laid her hands into his, he briefly paused, pointedly looking at the back of her hand and tsk-tsking. “He really shouldn’t have done that.”, he told her in Eltharin, and with a swift motion, pulled her on her feet. She had no time to adjust, even though it felt like her knees were made of dough and she was instantly hit by a wave of vertigo. Still, she stumbled behind him as requested, and it was good that she did so. While she cowered behind the tall elf and closed her eyes, because she had the distinct feeling something terrible was about to happen and she didn’t want to see it. She turned out to be correct, and could hear and practically feel how the room erupted into sudden violence: She heard crossbow bolts being shot, cries of pain, shouting and some amount of bleeding, she presumed. It took mere moments before silence fell, and she dared to open her eyes, only to discover that she was trembling and standing in a room that had been overrun by Dark Elves in the blink of an eye, again. As far as she could tell, the Freiherr’s men had been overwhelmed by Dark Elf corsairs that had come from gods know where in some kind of sneak attack, wounding most of the guards and now dragging them away, putting those to the sword that resisted too much. It was the aftermath of carnage that she had blocked out of her numbed mind and was now staring at Ruvol Blackwaters face, who looked awfully pleased with himself.  
  
The nobleman was sputtering, being held by Blackwater’s companion from earlier, a knife being held threateningly at his throat. The Druchii leader addressed him in a manner way too calm than the situation warranted, idly cleaning his blade. “You call us monsters. Why aren’t you listening to your own words, little man? “ The Dark Elf fixated the nobleman now, his gaze intense. “What we do to each other is our business. But when you, human, harm one of ours, you harm all of us. We are Druchii – we repay any pain, any wrong done to us a hundredfold.”  
  
This speech was enough to keep the Freiherr as well as Yalene silent while Ruvol Blackwater continued, a sadistic smile now creeping on his features as he addressed her in Reikspiel, so that the horrified nobleman could understand them. “You are the wounded party here, my dear. Do you want his tongue?”  
  
She just stared at him incredulously.  
  
“His eyeballs, then?”  
  
What was wrong with those people? She could barely restrain herself from asking this question aloud, forcing herself to politely smile. “How about not making a mess?”  
  
For a moment, she saw Blackwater’s eyes narrowing before he chuckled. “You are right. A sacrifice to Khaine should not be done in pieces, and he so does love nobleman blood.” He gestured to his companion. “Get him on Cahoris’ ship; tell her to keep him alive.”  
  
Yalene would have never thought to ever see this proud nobleman, who had strutted around in complete control of his life and the situation, now reduced to a man being dragged away kicking and screaming. It was a pitiful sight, and from what she had seen and learned, it was the sight of a man facing a fate worse than death. Sacrifices to Khaine were particularly bloody, a thought that the Druchii before her obviously cherished.She had to get away from those people as quickly as possible.  
  
That was however not the plan for the Druchii leader, who turned to her, his demeanour eerily calm again. “We intended to take him for a while now; your presence just hastened our plans. I wanted you to know that.”  
  
‘_Splendid?’_, she thought, and settled for a slightly puzzled: “Thank you.”  
  
“What about her?”, a Dark Elf soldier beside Ruvol Blackwater asked, and he seemed to weigh his options while eyeing her from head to toe in a way that Yalene didn’t particularly appreciate. She took comfort in the knowledge that even in the body of a breathtakingly beautiful elf, she currently looked her worst, dirty and dishevelled. But what good or bad would it do her? Those Dark Elves didn’t exactly look like they wanted to let her roam free now. She wasn’t even certain that this was possible in her current state, not to mention with the mark on her hand.  
  
After a short pause, the Druchii leader had decided. “I want to hear the story behind it all. So much doesn’t make sense about you.” He turned to the soldier. “Get her to my cabin and tell Mireille to get her taken care of and dressed. I want to have a little chat with her later.”  
  
Yalene would have rolled her eyes if she hadn’t been busy being aghast and confused in equal measure. Before she could ponder on her situation, before she could even think, she was taken by the arm by the soldier in a surprisingly respectful manner. She was even able to shake his hand off in an effort to retain even some remote control over the situation, straightened her shoulders and complied with the ridiculous demand. So, she was to be taken into a ‘cabin’, which together with the status as a leader, made her conclude that this Ruvol Blackwater was a captain amongst them, and she was currently in no position or condition to defy those orders, however they may lead. So she followed the soldier to a fate unknown.


	6. Defiance

She was led quickly to the Dark Elf corsair vessels. Their design seemed odd to her, wood of ebony colour forming sleek and elaborately decorated hulls, the sails and railings emulating the wings of a dragon. These elven vessels were reminiscent of a High Elf ship Yalene had once seen, although in terms of decoration and colour, they couldn’t be further apart. Even in this moment, she had to admit that these ships seemed more like swimming pieces of morbid, saturnine art to her instead of the fortresses of death they were. There were four vessels in total, their designations painted on the hulls, the names being comically gloomy. ‘Terror’ was currently the main vessel for holding the captured and screaming people, the ones that had been prisoners, guards or servants in the Freiherr’s mansion. Another large ship, ‘Devastation’, had not even bothered to throw the anchor. She was not able to translate the word ‘Shariva’ of the smallest ship, a word that was unknown to Yalene; she determined that it very much sounded like a female elven name.   
  
It was an enormous stroke of luck that she herself was still alive and unharmed, since the man who had to guard her did so with the dutiful indifference of a person who had to watch a possession that was easy to handle, but with enough care as not to break anything and anger the owner. She also noted with some grim amusement the name of the largest vessel to which she was led to.   
Its name was ‘Defiance’, as far as she was able to correctly translate the word. She quite liked that. For some reason, that was an almost hopeful turn in all of this misery. Still, ‘Defiance’ probably held its fair share of her fellow humans, and even distant neighbours of Hochfels still. What could be done about this?   
  
_You can’t help them.   
  
_She had to remind herself, lest she would despair at the sight of the bleak scene, the future of the people around her as well as her own. It was also true that she had to look at this situation in a realistic manner; she couldn’t help anybody, not even herself. What would happen now? She had no idea what the elves wanted with her, other than some strange form of Honour, camaraderie or community compelled them not to leave any of their race suffering at the hands of other races. That made her think that those people would certainly not look kindly on a mere human ‘stealing’ one of the precious bodies.   
So this was information that she had to keep secret at all costs. Keeping her back turned to the scene where poor souls were treated like cattle, she saw that her guardian was talking to a pretty woman dressed in a thin, yellow fabric that complimented her youthful appearance and healthy complexion. Why, it was almost enough to distract from the metal collar at her neck – that one looked pretty and decorative as well, but it was a collar with a ring for fastening a leash nonetheless.  
  
No words were spoken to Yalene, but she had apparently conducted herself docile enough as not to appear a danger to anybody, at least in the eyes of the guard, who after having spoken a few words to the woman, led her below deck, to the place on almost every ship were the captain’s cabin was usually located … at least, this was what human and elven vessels had in common. The slave woman went along and stayed with her as the soldier left. She didn’t introduce herself, but even with her eyes downcast and her tone demure, she carried herself with an air of quiet confidence that, considering her situation and youth, Yalene found to be quite surprising and admirable. She said a few words to Yalene, whispered words in heavily accented Druhir and with downcast eyes, to wait there and please not to touch anything, while she hurried away. It allowed Yalene a quick look around the cabin in which she had been led.  
  
Space on ships, even as well-constructed as this, was always a scarce commodity, so the captain’s cabin was not that large. Indeed, the captain’s cabin would often double as the officer’s mess on human vessels. On elven ships, this was not so much the case, it seemed. This cabin was lavishly decorated, with a table prominently displayed in the middle, several maps spread out there. Shelves and closets were found aplenty, all of them closed, as it was reasonable at sea. However. the decoration at the walls like the elaborately painted cloth with expensive, coloured dye, along with bric-á-bracs on polished surfaces seemed outright decadent to Yalene’s eyes, as was the large couch behind a table and several seats. How did they even get that couch there? They had to have it built in right at sea, same with the bed. A bed! What madness was this? The captain didn’t seem to believe in hammocks like any sensible seaman would, but rather in a large and massive canopy bed in the back of the room. Black and purple were the dominating colours in this room, and it told her everything she needed to know about the person living here, and at the same time nothing. That he was a decadent creature came with the territory of being a successful pirate that he appeared to be, and he was doing more … an attempt was made to make the quarters appear tasteful and luxurious as well as comfortable for guests, but there were subtle signs that he was simply flaunting wealth. This room was made for the eye of the public as well as personal comfort. At the same time, she saw no objects that led to any conclusion about his personality.   
  
On the bright side, she didn’t see any torture equipment either.  
  
While she was musing and frowning about the fact that these quarters had to be a mess after a good storm, the slave-woman from earlier appeared again, this time with another, much younger girl in tow. The two were clearly sisters; both had similar features, wore their chestnut hair in a similar pinned-up style and had bright, blue eyes, with one of them being in her mid-twenties, the other merely a youth blossoming into a woman. Both looked well-fed and rosy-cheeked; neither of them spoke much to Yalene, as they were mostly gesturing, but she was able to identify their accents as Bretonnian – they had a peculiar way to pronounce vowels that made Bretonnian easily recognizable even in other languages, even a melodic one like Eltharin. In the background, Yalene could see that a tub was being prepared – the decadence! - while the two slave-women carefully relieved her of all her dirt-crusted clothing. In hindsight, Yalene was surprised that her dress did not stand on its own, supported by dirt. Other than the clothes on her back, her only possession that had not been confiscated was her grandmother’s ring that Wiebke had fastened to a long, thin, silver chain out of Yalene’s jewellery box. The younger girl tentatively touched that ring, but was evidently content to leave it where it was. She was also undressed completely. Yalene had to admit to herself that this was less demeaning due to the fact that the two women were human; had they been elven, the vulnerability of being nude would have been too much to bear, and it would have also been almost impossible to play along. But she was now in survival mode, playing along and observing the situation while trying focus on the problems directly before her eyes, instead of thinking about her distant Hochfels-neighbours having been enslaved, as well as the poor Westerlanders, while she was bathed by two women who seemed shy, but in surprisingly good spirits.  
  
Her own behaviour must have seemed strange to the two of them, since Yalene moved rarely at all if not prompted, outwardly seeming apathetic, stoic and unmoving, while she was surveying her surroundings and prepare for the time ahead, one step at a time. As she was led into the tub in the next room, she kept her composure, observed and listened. The room itself was tiny, as bathrooms on a ship usually were, but it contained a mirror tacked on the wall that was way too large for comfort on a ship.  
  
It seemed like the captain was vain. Why, she would have _never_ guessed after looking at his quarters.   
  
She also noticed that the reserve and care with which the two women were treating her had a rather predictable reason in hindsight – fear. Whenever they exchanged glances, they seemed concerned and even a little disturbed, and they carefully avoided eye contact with her, the ‘Dark Elf’. The last thing that Yalene wanted was to frighten these girls that were bound to slavery and deprived of their free will, but how could she reassure them when she wore the face of a Druchii?  
  
So she kept playing the part of the aloof ice queen while the two women guided her to the tub and started scrubbing the grime off that her stint in prison had produced, even going so far as to wash and comb her hair. This would have been invigorating in different circumstances, but the situation being as it was, Yalene felt tense; going along with these proceedings was strangely embarrassing, although being washed by others was undeniably a luxury. At least, only soapy water was involved, so her sense of propriety and economy did not have to suffer anything more expensive extravagant like perfume. The current display of wealth offended her preference for a more humble habitat like she was accustomed to already.   
  
For a brief burst of insanity that lasted only for a few moments, when her hair was washed, she felt her heartbeat quicken when she wondered about lice, fearing that she could have caught some during her stay in prison. Then she would have to cut her hair, and that thought frightened her almost as much as the violence she had just witnessed. She had already noticed a few flea bites on her body, but her whole body was feeling itchy just at the thought of her cell, and that she hadn’t noticed before or blocked it out was concerning. When she asked the two girls in a more panicked voice than she cared to imagine, it was the youth who shrugged and patted her head reassuringly. “Looks good.”, she said in her distinct accent. “No worries.”  
  
This had the soothing effect and even allowed Yalene to mentally pat herself on the back for knowing the Eltharin word for ‘lice’.  
  
It came as an undeniable relief and might have prompted the two Bretonnians to allow her to dress herself, as they brought her a pack of cloth and simply handed it to her. They both respectfully nodded in unison, and then left her to her devices in that tiny bathroom. Since facing the Druchii captain was best done clothed, Yalene unfolded the dress, only to be forced to stifle an amused snort. Carefully listening, she determined that the two women were shuffling around in the captain’s cabin, so she had to cover her mouth as not to break into laughter. Evidently, female Dark Elves didn’t believe in much fabric or in covering up anything but the bare necessities. Still covering her mouth, Yalene took a closer look, and that did not help things. That ‘dress’ was a complicated mess of laces, but it would definitely show much skin and would make even the rather revealing robes that she had sometimes seen with the priesthood gravitating towards Rhya look like a fortress of cosmopolitan decency and proper fashion. But scarce clothing was better than no clothing, so Yalene started dressing, still shaking her head in amusement and stifling the occasional chuckle. The thought alone of putting this dress on her original, her true human form, to see that short, plain woman that she was, complete with scars and flappy skin at the belly … why, it amused her to no end, and even more so when she imagined that strange captain’s reaction to her Druchii-dressed human form. He seemed shallow enough to die of shock this way, as she mused with some amount of satisfaction.   
  
When she was done, she looked into the mirror mainly to check if she had dressed correctly, since the laces had proven to be quite a pain. That extravagant large thing that at the very least allowed her for the first time to take a close look at her appearance.   
  
It was a Dark Elf woman that stared back at her, her face still showing the echo of an amused smile, but a face that looked more like it was painted by an artist trying to depict heavenly beauty without earthbound concerns of realism instead of a person. The mostly black dress, if it deserved that label more than it would if it were a nightgown, revealed much skin, leaving her arms, neck and cleavage as well as much of her upper back and shoulders bare. Laces covered a little bit of her waist in a playful fashion, like they were a wide net, but it only served to highlight the revealed skin; Yalene did like the flowing skirt, though, as well as the pleasant feeling of the soft fabric on her skin, like flowing water. Although the bathing experience had been awkward, she felt so much better now, indeed invigorated, as if the spirit of life within her had finally risen from a long slumber. It felt like the skin could breathe in relief, radiating in the comfort of cleanliness that was quite honestly supported by the dress that left her so scantily-clad. Yalene decided to mark this as a point in the dress’s favour. The fact that evidently, shoes were optional in this cabin as well, suited Yalene just fine because of the same reason. This whole outfit had clearly sprung from the brow of a man or was made exclusively to cater to male fantasies. She looked like a doll and would have dismissed her mirror image as such, since the only thing that made it look like a person, like a being that one could relate to, was the amused smile caused by this bizarre situation.  
  
It should have been supremely humiliating, but she remembered the memoirs of an Reikland woman revolutionizing the fashion world when she drew shocked gasps because she dared to show cleavage or bare part of her arms in the past. When that woman had been asked if she wasn’t ashamed by the looks she drew from men, but she merely answered ‘No. If they leer at other women, no matter how prude, it cheapens these women. But when they dare to set their eyes upon me, they have to avert them because it’s _them_ for a change who feel cheap.’ It was all a matter of attitude, the Reiklander had explained, and that her attitude was one that made her wear revealing clothes like an armour. It seemed that it was time to channel her inner Irmgard Raureif and hold her head high not despite, but because of the clothes she was wearing.   
  
‘_Alright, old girl.’_, she thought at her mirror image, now staring at it intently. The foreign woman’s features in the mirror hardened instantly, the fire of determination in her eyes._ ‘If the Druchii learn the truth, you will die. So lie your butt off and get yourself to safety. Remember, for your sanity’s sake: you can’t help anybody in this situation. It will be a miracle if you can help yourself.’_ This was such a sobering thought that she had to repeat it.  
  
‘_You can’t help anybody.’  
  
_Steadying herself, she continued with her silent conversation with the person in the mirror. _‘He will lie, he will deceive, he will push. Don’t falter. You are wise to angry men’s antics and have been for decades. You’ve got this.’  
  
_That was not all, however. She needed an achievable goal for the upcoming discussion, this session of lies she had to go through. What did she want from the Dark Elf captain? Despite the mark on her hand, she wanted nothing more than to be set free, to make her way to Altdorf again. There, she could explain herself, somehow. These Dark Elves were slavers and butchers; she would not suffer their company if she could help it. ‘_Above all, survive and compartmentalize. He has made it abundantly clear that he sees you as part of his race. Keep him in that belief. That also means that you go along with his games in order to be set free. That means for the sake of your sanity, you will like whatever he will be doing. Enjoy yourself. Whatever you do tonight, there can’t be shame.’_ She had to swallow hard at those twisted words, but they were the truth. If she wanted to escape even more despair, she couldn’t allow herself to be forced to submit even more. So she had to prepare her mind for going along of her own will that she alone could shape, to pretend until she didn’t need to pretend anymore. There was so little control left in her life, so little of her own destiny that could be formed by her alone, but she could still rely on her mind to be flexible and disciplined. Whatever happened, she would deal with it afterwards and survive that as well. When she felt that her mind was ready, she repeated _‘You’ve got this’_ in her mind again, then straightened her shoulders, called upon her inner Irmgard Raureif and strode out of the little bathroom.   
  
Her little theatrics probably made quite the impression to the younger Bretonnian slave-girl, who greeted her with a tray that she had placed on the table, now cleaned of maps. Bless her heart, because Yalene couldn’t even express how thankful she was for a meal served. She even took the time to clasp the hands of the poor, puzzled girl, mumbled a few thanks in either Bretonnian, Reikspiel or Eltharin – truly, she couldn’t remember which, but it might have been all of the above – before sitting down and starting to eat while the girl pretended not to watch her. Yalene also noticed that she had to share the table with her father’s grimoire, which put her at ease for so many reasons. It seemed that the book had survived its stint in the Freiherr’s prison better than she had done.   
  
She had never eaten so slowly in her whole life; after having suppressed the urge to wolf down the bowl of broth standing before her, she had tasted it carefully. She had read earlier this month about the origins of an old, classical word that was erroneously thought to describe the end of the world, but meant more along the lines of revelation or unveiling. The broth on her tongue was so intense in flavour, the experience so new on her newly acquired taste buds that she thought that the term ‘apocalypse’ was rightfully to be used here, if a bit dramatic. If she had eaten any faster than a sloth, then her senses together with the pleasant scent of soap and the soft fabric on her skin would have been too overwhelming and indeed apocalyptic to her senses.  
  
Of course, it wasn’t long until her dearest host arrived in his cabin, accompanied by the other Bretonnian woman. After acknowledging her with a curt nod, he made a reassuring gesture. “Stay seated.”, he told her in a tone that seemed to incline that he considered himself exceedingly generous for doing so, oblivious to the fact that she prioritised food and water right now over his company. With the help of the Bretonnian sisters, he loosened his hair out of the ponytail and then started peeling himself out of armour and large parts of his clothing until he was only half-way clothed.   
Yalene also couldn’t help but notice that he went out of his way to stay in her line of sight, that he discarded his shirt although he didn’t need to under the pretence of changing a bandage for a minor wound on his forearm. That kind of posturing was not even subtle, and quite frankly, kind of hilarious.   
  
She had to admit that there was some aesthetic value to this elven specimen if one was inclined to forget that he was a pirate, slaver and ruthless butcher who had unironically offered her body parts of an outmanoeuvred enemy as gifts of endearment. That he had also immensely helped her was something that Yalene still could barely fathom. She did note, however, that he possessed pleasant features, dark eyes and a wiry frame that must have counted as muscular by slender, elven standards. His skin was inhumanly pale, showing its fair share of scars and tattoos.   
  
He looked like a bad idea made flesh. If Finja would have introduced him as a crush, even if he had been human, Yalene would have cautioned her to run away like all of Morgheim was behind her just on appearance alone, no matter how pleasing to the eye it might have been. In another situation, Yalene realized, the sight itself might have aroused her, now that she inhabited this body. But not like this, not while she had seen the blood on his hands and the glee with which he killed. Both times, he had coincidentally done so in her favour, and she sincerely hoped that this elf didn’t consider this a debt. That she owed him her life twice over now was not a thought she cherished.   
  
For a few moments of questionable comfortableness, they both examined each while pretending to be terribly preoccupied. While the Bretonnian sisters tidied up and then quietly slipped away with the skill of a seasoned slave knowing how to avoid trouble, Ruvol Blackwater finished his bandaging, while Yalene finished her meal. It had been light, only broth, water, a sliced up steamed carrot and a piece of soft, white bread, and the portions had been small as not to upset or overwhelm her tender stomach. Somebody in the ship’s kitchen knew exactly how to treat a starving person, which was a disconcerting thought. The only thing left for her was a small bow with only a spoonful of some sort of mush that suspiciously looked a little like somebody had already eaten that once and sprinkled it with bird droppings. There was also a tiny cup with some sort of substance that she quite honestly was not certain what to do with. It did smell so spicy that she suspected it would burn her eyebrows off if she came too close.   
  
“You are looking more lively.”, he finally noted with a slight trace of amusement, rising to casually pour them two goblets of wine, which she declined with a silent gesture. But now, there was no way to avoid this conversation, as the captain leaned back, goblet in hand, and regarded her with guarded curiosity. He also pointedly did not leer at her and kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face, observing her as attentively as she was him.“How about you tell me what you were doing here, how you got yourself captured and where you are from?” He had the strange habit of stretching the words to make his words needlessly dramatic when not excited or in battle. It seemed to be some kind of linguistic humour, which Yalene appreciated.  
  
“In that order?” She responded in kind, with the same caution as he did, masking it with the slightest trace of friendly humour. She was still channelling her inner Irmgard Raureif, so the strange feeling of being more naked than she had in a long, long while was less egregious. The fact that she felt keenly that this was not her body to begin with might have played a part as well and made it possible for her to lounge in her chair without pretence, sitting cross-legged while she carefully eyed the reaction of the Dark Elf captain as she told her tale as intended. “I am afraid that my background is not so easily explained. But first, allow me to thank you. I am feeling so much better now.” He made a dismissive gesture, so she continued to spin her lie. “I know that I accompanied a sorceress named Vesash to infiltrate the Empire, and I know that a ritual went awry when her spell on a local Witch Hunter weakened.” She had never been much of a liar, but experience told her that it was best to keep as close to the truth as possible. Furthermore, she thought that this flotilla of Dark Elf corsairs and the Druchii connected to the dark ritual that had claimed among others her life were somehow connected. So she thought it best to feign memory loss.   
  
Currently, the Druchii captain seemed to listen attentively, so she casually reached for the small bowl with the suspicious-looking mush and carefully probed it with her spoon, continuing her tale. “I only know fragments of what happened before or after. I was taken in by humans, of all people. That’s why I walked among them in disguise, and I was caught when I lost that disguise.”  
  
The captain furrowed his brow and sipped his wine. “Then why did you flee from us in that human settlement?”  
  
“Would you have believed me that I don’t remember exactly how I got here?”  
  
He stared at her, lifting his chin ever so slightly. “I see. Continue.”  
  
So far, she was not certain if her tale was believable enough, since it was hard for her to interpret the elf’s body language. Elves in general had a very complex language that was complemented through small gestures and subtle changes in pronunciation. To enunciate a word in a more melodic way could change the meaning of the word or even a sentence when one was not careful. That was one of the many reasons why Eltharin was so difficult to learn for humans. Furthermore, Eltharin itself was divided by three dialects that had been supplemented by a slight change in tone and words that had been added in a manner that had always struck Yalene as artificial, as if the elves wanted to differentiate themselves through language. That all also meant that the body language of this man, while overlapping with human body language, could either be much more telling, more subtle or more menacing and she wouldn’t be able to tell.   
  
“I then crossed the forest. I think the Eonir either didn’t notice me or allowed me to pass since I had one of their spirits in my possession.” She spoke in an even tone, careful to appear pleasant and unfazed while she eyed the mush again. Should she eat that? Perhaps it was meant as a spread for the bread and she hadn’t noticed? The texture didn’t seem right. “The spirit escaped and I arrived at the city of Aarnau.”  
  
“Wait a minute, I think I just heard that you enslaved a spirit and lost it in the Laurelorn Forest that you magically crossed in what the humans said must have been two days.”, he laughed, but was clearly sceptical. Yalene paused, having to admit to herself that the truest part of the story that he chose to misinterpret was actually quite fantastic and hard to believe.   
  
Much to her surprise, the smile on the Dark Elf’s face grew, and he made a gesture of acceptance that indicated that even if he had been sceptical of the rest of the story, that _this_ was the part that he believed to be true. She herself kept her expression carefully neutral, and seeing that he was still pondering on the story she had just told, she decided to try the spoonful of mush just to see what it was and did so in one, fell swoop.   
  
Immediately, when she tasted the contents, her eyes filled up with tears, covering her mouth in a reflex that she couldn’t even stop if she wanted to. Closing her eyes, she felt that those tears started flowing freely down her cheeks. It was a small, short burst of sensation and emotion, and she could practically hear the elf being taken aback by her reaction under the rushing of blood in her ears.   
  
“That bad?”, he asked, quite puzzled.   
  
She shook her head vigorously, took a moment to gather her bearings and to really absorb that delicious spoonful of sweet dessert she had been given and wiping the tears of joy away. It was a bittersweet experience, but one that she wouldn’t have traded for the world and, of course, provided an excellent distraction from the current conversation. Still, in this instance, she thought she owed her interlocutor an explanation, which she did almost in awe of what she had just consumed.   
  
“Rum raisins.”, she simply noted, but her voice was filled with emotion that she could scarcely describe or define. “I love them. I truly do.”  
  
That whole dessert had been nothing in form of texture, appearance or taste that she would have attributed to human cuisine. But the rum raisins that had been added reminded her of home, reminded her of what she had lost. If given the chance, she could become a drunkard if rum raisins ever had produced one. The elf still seemed rather accepting of that little outburst; he instead put down his goblet with an audible clicking noise, not enough to demonstrate anger, but clearly enough to send a chill of fear down her spine, as he let her know that he was wary of her words. He even smirked a little as he rose from his chair, walking around the table and extending a hand to her.   
  
“Let me show you something.”  
  
It would have been a friendly tone and gesture if he were slightly more clothed. Why he eschewed shirts, she didn’t exactly want to know. This was an elf, the situation was as bizarre as it could be. So she let herself be taken by the hand and helped up to rise from her chair, a movement that didn’t invite vertigo this time around. She felt stronger and a little bit more focused, the fog of exhaustion finally starting to clear. With an expression that Yalene couldn’t quite describe, he led her two steps to the window.   
  
Any captain’s cabin, be it human or elven vessel, was usually located at the stern of the ship atop the waterline. It also usually contained the largest window on the ship, as it was the case here. He led her there so that she could watch the scene the ship left behind. She could feel how he positioned himself behind her, feel the warmth of his body as he stopped only an inch before their bodies touched, the invasion of her personal space that was by all accounts unpleasant. She received the impression that he was doing this deliberately, especially given the scenery she witnessed. She had had turned her back to the window before, but now she saw the Imperial coastline and the burning building that the Dark Elves had left behind … they must have set the Noble’s mansion ablaze after looting everything of value. For some reason, this was an immensely demoralizing thought for her.  
  
Her body tensed involuntarily as she felt his touch, just his fingertips lightly resting on her hip bone. It was enough to make her blood curdle and her stomach churn while she felt his breath on the skin of her ear, his low whisper in its politeness and faux-friendliness a subtle menace.  
  
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He paused, letting the innocent words built up into the true question. “Or is it?”  
  
He knew. Dear gods, he knew. Yalene froze, her mind frantically searching for a lie she could use, something to tell this man that she was no danger, that he could release her, that he did not need to burn down anything else, but any thought rested, and the words were stuck in her throat. One of his hands now rested on her shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly as if to force her to face the sight of the burning building.   
  
“How about the truth now?” She realized that she was currently subjected to intimidation tactics, and since the Dark Elf was so close and had already demonstrated that he could overpower her with ease, those tactics didn’t miss their mark completely. In fact, it made her stutter.   
  
“That’s the truth.” Even to Yalen’s ears, this sounded unconvincing, even without seeing the facial expression of the man behind her. That was part of the terror, she noted, part of the intimidation.  
  
“You. Try. My. Patience.” Ruvol Blackwater snarled, again dangerously quiet. “You refuse seeing your captor bleed. You flee from your own, but not humans. You keep _human_ books as your treasured possession. Your Druhir is atrocious.” She could hear him smirk. “And worst of all, you don’t dip your bread into the Velárn-Oil. Only barbarians do that, but you clearly have table manners.” With a sudden movement, he spun her around, pressing her against the window glass, towering over her, his gaze intense. “You are no Druchii. Are you a spy? A runaway slave?”  
  
She was thoroughly scared that she would quickly share the fate of her Hochfels neighbours or worse, so her voice was only a scared, desperate whisper that she barely recognized. “I am neither spy nor slave. I can’t tell you anything you would believe. This happened to me. I don’t remember anything else.” This was unstructured, but she really didn’t think that this man would accept any answer right now.   
  
She was proven right a moment later when he grabbed her hair, forcing her to look into his face. This was also the first time he raised his voice. “If you don’t tell the truth this instant, I have ways to get it out of you. So talk now!”  
  
Despite the painful tug at her hair and the Dark Elf shouting into her face, Yalene was almost relieved. He had started shouting, and in this, he was no different than any angry man she had ever had the displeasure of knowing. In her eyes, he had all the power in this place, so shouting at her and needing this kind of intimidation tactic made her believe that he was either bluffing, or that he didn’t have the means to make her tell the truth other than torture, and that was by no means a secure source of information. Strangely enough, it strengthened her resolve to keep her secret, and it strengthened her belief that she was better off to never disclose it. The fact that he pointedly did not threaten to kill her was also not lost on her – he threatened nothing at all but force, but had apparently no plans to dispose of her anytime soon. That was a strangely comforting thought.  
  
That was the reason why her response was fraught of fear, but not nearly as much as somebody resorting to screaming would have hoped. In fact, Yalene sounded resigned. “That is the truth, no matter what means you employ. You’ll get the same answer.” She left that sentence in a demure and defeated tone, in hopes that this would calm him down.  
  
It didn’t. Instead, his lips curled into a smirk, clearly savouring what he said next. “Very well. I would have liked to avoid this, but we have to employ magic now.”  
  
Blast it! That wasn’t fair! How did she deserve such rotten luck as had befallen her lately?  
  
Ruvol had loosened his grip on her hair, lips turned into a cruel and smug smile. When he let her hair go, he left his hand trailing down her spine before, rather provocatively, squeezing one of her buttcheeks. Yalene did her best to ignore it, no matter how humiliating it was and despite the surge of anger she felt over the intrusion. That must have shown on her face, since the smile on the Druchii’s face broadened. “Among my crew, there is a sorceress. She is able to cast this spell, but as always, there’s a cost. You see, it is terribly, dreadfully, _excruciatingly_ painful, the kind of agony that shatters the mind into tiny little pieces until only an empty husk remains. I’d rather not risk this, but it seems like you leave me no choice ...”   
  
This time, it was Yalene who was fed up with his groping and faked friendliness that only served to mask that sadistic pleasure, so she interrupted him, rather rudely and matter-of-factly. “You will do it anyway, no matter what I say now.”  
  
“True.” He replied simply and with a hint of respect, but that he stopped groping her didn’t stop him from turning her around in a quick, fluid motion and forcing her on her knees, keeping her in place with one hand at her shoulder. “Fascinating spell. You will tell me the truth, no matter how outlandish it sounds, and there is nothing you can do about it.”   
  
Since she was already forced into a humiliating position on her knees, Yalene didn’t see any reason to give his taunting any more credence or attention, kept her eyes on the wall and her lips pressed together tightly. But this made him only smile again. “My first mate and I made a bet if we get tactical information on any Asur-operations tonight. For what it’s worth, I _really_ hope that your mind is still intact after this procedure. NISHA! Come in!”  
  
He had barely called her name when another Druchii rushed into the cabin. This was the first time that Yalene saw what an ancient crone among elves looked like, and this was definitely one. She had aged horribly even by human standards, her face covered with wrinkles and deep, dark scars, as if something had drawn the youth and beauty out of her through those blackened wounds. She must have stood at the door to wait for her cue, which told Yalene that this spell had been planned from the beginning, and the conversation beforehand had merely been a sadistic game for the captain’s amusement. Since he also mentioned he had made a bet, he had already decided that she was some sort of High Elf spy, and had played with her like a cat did with a caught mouse. Conclusion: Ruvol Blackwater was a bastard, and that insulted bastards everywhere. There was no time to muse about it now, since to Yalene’s utter surprise, the frail crone approached her positively cooing.  
  
“Awwww, what a young little bird you have there. What a beauty!” That delight the sorceress radiated appeared to be genuine … and genuinely creepy from the recipient’s point of view, who eyed the other woman warily as she tentatively touched Yalene’s cheek before she addressed Ruvol again with a kind and grandmotherly tone. “Captain, are you certain? That seems such a terrible waste.” And just to top it all off, she patted Yalene’s cheek in the same, amicable fashion, now practically purring. “Grey eyes, just like a dove. How charming.” That little pat and those compliments frightened Yalene more than any shouting, threatening and groping the dramatic elf holding her down had done, which was quite the feat on the sorceress’ part. Beside her, she heard the man chuckle.  
  
“She knows that we will continue, no matter what, and just hope that her mind survives. There’s no need to beat around the bush.”  
  
“What a pity.” The sorceress really looked disappointed. “I so enjoy the banter and the dread.”  
  
What a pity, because Yalene on her part would enjoy seeing that sorceress _spontaneously combust_. But they were all set up for disappointments this evening.   
  
“I enjoy that banter as well, Nisha. But there is always a next time.” The captain said in a friendly, even charming tone as she knelt behind Yalene, holding her tight as to prevent even a slight struggle from her part. Little did he know that she had had her share of botched rituals, thank you very much, and was now more angry than scared about the ritual about to happen. Ever since Dark Elves and their magic had entered her life, it had been upside down and was now about to go worse. She didn’t know if those people were bluffing or if the side effects of the spell were that dramatic, or if the spell was really that powerful. But what she knew was that a shattered mind also meant forgetting about the past, and giving all that had transpired, sweet oblivion was not the worst outcome she could imagine. All in all, she would like to see if that spell could do what the Dark Elves promised, and if there was indeed nothing she could do. There was a good chance that the spell targeted the soul, in which case, chaos and possibly hilarity for all of them was about to ensue, and Yalene found herself surprisingly beyond caring.  
  
Also, the man literally breathing down her neck could spontaneously combust as well, as far as Yalene was concerned.  
  
The elves exchanged looks, after which the sorceress ran her fingers across Yalene’s face, chanting as she did in a language she did not understand. The sorceress’ hands started to glow in a dazzling, violet light that seemed to turn solid. It felt like it crawled under Yalene’s skin, painfully like boiling blood flooding through the veins, flowing through her body. It was painful, but not the agony they had threatened, thank goodness, but the headache as the magic flooded the head was unpleasant enough. Soon enough, there was a strange sensation like dissolving, after which she could hear the voices of the sorceress and the captain, as well as her own as if she was being underwater. There was no way that she could make out words or even the tone of the conversation. After that, there was only silence, endless silence.  
  



	7. These violent delights have violent ends

Lately, her life had been so bizarre and so harrowing that it was almost unbelievable to wake up and feel downright comfy. In fact, the feeling of lying on a soft, little cloud cushioned within the rocking motions of a ship at sea was such a change of pace, so outlandish in contrast to all that had happened that Yalene still thought she was dreaming. Reality set in rather quickly when she realized that she was lying on a bed, the captain’s bed, to be precise.  
  
Too confused to be startled, she turned her head to take a look around in the captain’s cabin. Out of the window, she could see the starlit night sky, the only light that illuminated these quarters. The old woman was gone, she herself was still clothed and even covered with a blanket, which was an unexpected kind gesture. She found the Druchii captain beside her, apparently sound asleep. Even in resting, he had draped himself onto the bed that had magically arranged itself to present him in the most favourable way, splayed upon the mattress like a work of erotic art. He must have bribed the pale moonlight to play with his muscles and illuminate the unnatural bright colour of his skin.  
  
After she had determined that shock was for the weak of stomach, Yalene couldn’t decide if she should be annoyed more by the fact that he had lied to inspire terror in her because of a spell that may or may not have revealed her secret, or that he possessed the audacity to breach about any social contract about two strangers sleeping in one bed. The only people she had ever spent slept beside with were her sister, Leevke, and of course Sören during their experimental stage of their short-lived relationship. Even decades later, she liked to downplay her involvement with the lad, mainly because it was more befitting to an old spinster like her to be an officially frigid and virginal old spinster. In truth, the inept fumbling she had experienced with Sören might have played a part in her lifelong disinterest in anything sexual or romantic. Or something had just been different with her. Either way, she had worked differently once and was now keenly reminded of it, because even when being asleep, this Dark Elf beside her breathed desire.  
  
Either way, she was pleased to be alive, but not pleased with what she had woken up to.  
  
What to do now? Her instincts told her to flee for the next exit, her mind told her to take the opportunity for a good night’s sleep now that it presented itself. Besides, there were on a ship, with only a few, soft sounds of the crew working the night shift reaching her ears, and from the window, there was no coastline in sight. There was no way to run. Yalene was solely tempted to just slowly and quietly sink back into the cushions and pretend to be asleep. Whatever the outcome of the sorceress’ spell, whether she really spilled the truth or they just attempted to, it would only lead to an uncomfortable conversation she pointedly didn’t want to have.  
  
As silently as she could, she rose, her dress rustling, trying to sit on the edge of the bed to think for a spell. To gather her thoughts was something she felt she sorely needed, but it was not meant to be. The moment her toes touched the wooden floor, she heard a voice behind her.  
  
“Slept well?” When she swirled around, she could see that the Dark Elf had either awoken or had pretended to be asleep in the first place. He was lying on the side, having propped his head up with one hand in a manner that was probably meant to be appealing. His eyes shone bright with amusement; he was positively exhilarated, which was so disturbing that Yalene let out an involuntary yelp, quickly slid down the bed and would have dived under the bed if it wouldn’t have been such a feeble effort. Plus, one could never know how dirty the floor really was. So in her shock, she settled for diving for cover behind the bedpost furthest from him, which, predictably in hindsight, made him laugh.  
  
“No need to be afraid. That spell wasn’t so bad, was it? I do like to joke around sometimes.” She could hear him moving on the bed and coming closer, which inspired her to scurry away from the bed, which ended in her back pressing against one of the cupboards, the bed perfectly in sight. She wished she hadn’t done so, because she could see the Druchii rising from the bed, as bare as he had entered this world, dick swinging.  
  
Oh, that was just great. Yalene felt herself being less embarrassed and more frustrated as she hid her face in her hands. The Dark Elf chuckled again, and she could hear the rustling of fabric and him noting with clear exhilaration: “There, the naked man is covered, thus the naked man is harmless.”  
  
If he hadn’t during their previous interaction tried to scare the living daylights out of her and in the end produced one of those infamous sorceresses to go to work on her mind, she might have been inclined to be a little bit more open-minded, if only for the sake of necessity. But now, Yalene felt that any other approach than suspicion would be naïve to the extreme. Still, when she peeked through her fingers, she could see that he had indeed wrapped a sheet around his hips, mockingly holding up his arms to show that he was indeed unarmed and that he had covered up, as requested.  
  
But more importantly and disturbingly, this man seemed downright _giddy_, and his cheerfulness was untouched by setbacks like her not cooperating. Instead, he beckoned her toward him. His features softened and his voice grew more gentle.  
  
“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you. Come to me so we can talk.”  
  
Obviously, he thought that his situation was hilarious. The hilarity from Yalene’s perspective was questionable, since she had seen him kill, enslave, grope and threaten. This man was dangerous, but even dangerous men could be jovial. She eyed him warily, yet he was not deterred, regarding her hesitance with what seemed like a genuine smile, his response cheerful and even slightly teasing in his response.  
  
“Come to me, dove, or I’ll come to you. The choice is yours.”  
  
This was not a choice at all; eventually, she would end up closer to him anyway. The only way to retain at least some grain of control was to comply, as wrong as it sounded and felt. Tentatively, Yalene moved as requested, walking slowly to the bed on which the man was now kneeling. The elf was apparently not able to contain his excitement and pulled her towards him in one sudden and fluid motion. So she found herself in his arms again, facing him kneeling before him, barely covered as he was. The way he smiled reminded her of a young boy, simply _elated_ at the sight of a shiny new toy. He even let his hands tentatively rest on her shoulders, as if he could barely believe something so fragile and rare was now in his possession.  
  
“I’ve been racking my brain about this puzzle: why are you running away, why are you among humans, why is your Druhir so bad, are you some insane Asur spy, why oh why are you so weird …?” He beamed a smile at her, cradling her head in his hands, barely touching her. “I would have never even guessed the truth: a human woman wearing the skin of a Druchii! This _has_ to be a unique thing in this world. I take it half back, your Eltharin is actually quite good, considering your human tongue. But there’s so much you don’t know ...” His voice contained a disturbingly dreamy quality. At this point, it was kind of obvious that the spell had worked, but it still felt like one more devastating defeat in a long line. Quite taken aback and unresponsive to this sudden burst of fascination and friendliness, Yalene wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold. This gesture went entirely unnoticed by the excited elf. “How does it feel?”  
  
Yalene blinked in confusion. Of all the things he could have said, of all the questions posed, that was the one in the forefront of his mind?  
  
“I know, I should have asked earlier, but it wasn’t quite a priority then.”, he chuckled. “You said that you consider yourself as a learned woman. This is so fascinating! Haven’t you wondered sometimes if that cage of flesh we are all bound to has more influence on us than we think? Elven emotions are so much more complex and intense than human ones. Could you feel that already?” Yalene felt her heart beating wildly in her chest as the Druchii started kneading her wrists gently and soothingly. That felt so strange, as if he had missed her hands on purpose.  
  
“What makes you think that elven emotions are different?” There was no trace of any adversarial feelings within the captain now, so she might as well focus on the discussion, despite her nervousness and confusion.  
  
“We know. We’ve always known.”  
  
“Yes, but how do you know? Have you experienced human emotion and deemed them dull?”  
  
Somehow, his smile got even broader. Was there anything she could say that would _not_ please him in some way? He looked her in the eyes, speaking in a low, honeyed tone. Yalene also noted that she had been wrong and his eyes were not simply black, but an eerie, inhumanly dark blue. “So you don’t feel any different? Everything you feel now is exactly how you felt as a human? You feel just as much? Just as warm, just as cold, hungry, sad, happy, driven …” He calmly pulled her closer so that she could have rested her head against his shoulder if she had wanted. “ … more lustful? Or were you always a little minx? Ah, wrong question. You humans tend to shame each other for the strangest things.” Again, his face showed amusement, although he more or less seemed to note the last sentence for himself.  
  
Unbelievable. It appeared that Ruvol Blackwater, butcher of Hochfels and dreaded corsair, was trying to _seduce_ her, a frightened old woman who had managed to attract the most lethal and strange accidents in a matter of days, including landing herself in a bed with a man who almost certainly would not accept the word ‘no’ and had now started to undo the laces of that dress of hers with nimble fingers. He was so swift, so deft in his movements that she only noticed when the fabric slid down her skin, exposing her upper body. It was indeed an impressive feat. For some reason, this was more surprising than embarrassing, mainly because she keenly felt that this was not her body. Yalene was more concerned with the hilarious thought of being seduced, a statement that would have made a whole tavern roar just a few weeks earlier. So she didn’t even contain her baffled amusement in form of a soft snort, which, in turn, puzzled the Druchii. At least that gave him pause.  
  
“You won’t have fun.” She simply said without thinking. It was a stupid attempt on her part, since sex seemed to be the only outcome in this situation, but she had to try and since the Druchii had already magicked any secret out of her, it didn’t matter to spill some of her thoughts in her opinion. Little seemed to matter at this point. She wasn’t even afraid anymore … she hadn’t received the impression that he had wanted to seriously harm her even before the spell. “My good man, you heard me: You won’t have fun.”  
  
The Druchii was clearly amused and slightly surprised by this, interested enough in her explanation to cease unwrapping her like a gift for the time being. He merely cocked his head like a bird, waiting for her to continue.  
  
“Do you play chess? Who knows it simply doesn’t play with beginners. It is my understanding that it’s the same with sex.” She replied, shrugging.  
  
“So?” Was there anything she could tell him that would not serve to either amuse him or clearly add to his arousal? Instead, he reached around her, his fingertips trailing along her back in slow, sensuous movements that left her skin tingle delightfully.  
  
“As I said: I don’t know what I am doing. I am a lousy lay.” Shrugging helplessly, Yalene wondered once more if her little improvised word-salad would work in Druhir, but was rather confident that she had made her point.  
  
“Good to know. Just the basics, no adventures and I’ll do all the work. Don’t worry, you don’t need to do anything. Just relax and enjoy yourself.” With a cheeky grin, he sealed this promise with an admittedly cute peck on the tip of her nose.  
  
This overly excited attitude was quite disconcerting. If she could have done so, she would have thrown up her hands now. Somehow, she felt resigned and kept talking mainly out of a misplaced sense of fairness. Having managed to slip one hand between their bodies, she had pressed one palm against his chest in a feeble attempt to keep his onslaught of sensuality at bay, all those innocent caresses that barely touched her body, but made her shiver nonetheless. “I can’t even claim to serve some fetish – there is nothing virginal about me. I am a fifty-three year old spinster. You will be bored out of your wits.” Yalene had reached the limits of her active Eltharin vocabulary and had to improvise with a few hasty word-combinations that would carry her point across, but would not sound elegant by any means.  
  
For the first time, the smile on the Druchii’s face died, as he looked her into the eyes, appearing sincere and calm. “Understood … but tell me already: What does it feel like?”  
  
There was a poignant sense of intensity in his voice, curiosity burning in his gaze. Yalene could always respect that kind of unrestrained thirst for knowledge; furthermore, she felt the need to put her latest exploits and experiences into words. There was no reason not to comply. She saw that the Druchii listened attentively and patiently, so she took a deep breath to gather her thoughts. “I have only been in this … state … for a couple of days when you first saw me in Hochfels.” It was more of an effort to use the word ‘state’ to describe her predicament. Somehow, it made it more real than it already was. Ruvol didn’t seem to be inclined to mock her or laugh at her in any way for once, and just listened to the whispered words that sounded increasingly pensive and vulnerable, more so than she would have liked. She couldn’t look at him, instead keeping her eyes fixed on his collarbone.  
  
“Changes don’t take hold that quickly, or should not. Still … the world seems so much louder now. Even in a serene forest, there are sounds I didn’t notice before. The water seems more smooth, clothing just slightly more rough, and the stench of a person that hasn’t washed themselves in a tenday is overwhelming. Freezing temperatures seemed pleasant, though. Everything is so much more intense … “ … save for the winds of magic. Of those, she could only see dim and fading traces of magic that were so subtle, she had almost overlooked them. It was as if her sight was now unfocused to her eyes and needed time to adjust. At least, she hoped it would adjust. It had been almost laughingly easy to manipulate the strands of magic, but to see and interpret them as she used to, to see an omen behind every corner was an ability currently lost to her. Perhaps elves interpreted the winds of magic differently, or perhaps her perception of this reality was simply tainted by the ritual. But her ability towards magic, no matter how miniscule, was something she wanted to keep a secret. It felt more comfortable to do so, and at the same time, the current loss of this sense was painful and confusing, like losing eyes, ears and voice at the same time. Everybody knew how disoriented and lost one could get in the darkness of the blind eye, and she felt so very lost.  
  
It was at this point that Yalene felt the Druchii’s lips on her skin again. His caresses were almost innocent – warm breath at her temple, a kiss on her hair, a flick of his tongue at the tip of her ear, a careful, tender nibble at her earlobe, while his fingers trailed up and down her upper arm. His touch was comforting, no matter who he was. Why he bothered to be so careful with her was easily explained: he didn’t want to break his toy too quickly, or at least that was Yalene’s read on the situation as she continued.  
  
“Perhaps elves indeed feel more strongly, but I believe being killed, pulled into a foreign body and then captured and betrayed is enough to feed a melancholic spirit. Those feelings are the worst thing of it all. I’ve experienced loss before, but it never affected me so deeply … I used to be such a strong, composed person, so independent. My advice and skills were often sought and even more often habitually shared.” Yalene smiled bitterly at the memory, because one could say that she was also quite pushy in her sharing of experience, knowledge and wisdom. It filled her heart with complete and utter despair when she came to the sad conclusion. “That person was connected with her community. But this person is no more. I used to be so happy and was too blind to even notice… now, my own people look at me in fear and anger. I am not part of their world.” The sudden surge of melancholy prevented her from continuing, in part because she felt tears welling up her eyes, in part because she followed the instinct to connect with somebody, anybody by burying her head against the Dark Elf’s shoulder.  
  
Thus cradled, she tried to regain her composure. The elf didn’t seem to mind, paused and gave her that moment, while she felt his fingers combing through his hair.  
  
“You are part of this world as a Druchii now. Accept that.” His tone was gentle, but firm, not stopping in this tone or speech while he carefully lowered her on her back, which was actually a welcome change to Yalene. “You have survived a lethal magic ritual and came back reborn. You are an elf now and can experience all the knowledge and culture of another people first-hand. Isn’t that lucky enough for you, woman of knowledge and learning?” Yalene had to admit that he made a reasonable point, even if it didn’t feel like it. Determined to be the tender, self-styled seducer that he at least currently was, she could tell that he restrained himself greatly. He then buried his head between her breasts, cupping one with his hand and suckling on the swollen bud of the other, making Yalene swallow a whimper. Satisfied with this response, the elf pushed the rest of the fabric of her dress down, deftly lifting her hips to draw the remaining clothing down her legs, only to let it drop forgotten on the floor.  
  
Yalene could merely cling herself to the sheet, gasping helplessly as the Druchii stroked along her legs, caressing her inner thighs and making his way between her legs methodically, with well-practised and nimble fingers. Whenever she opened her eyes, she could see that he watched her reaction intently, his eyes even darker than they had appeared before.  
  
“I’ve told you.”, he murmured calmly as he sent waves of sweet, sweet pleasure through her body. “Elves feel more strongly than humans. You personally hold the proof in your heart.” His playful teasing of her labia culminated in an elegant finger seeking and finding entrance, curling in a repeated come-hither-motion while his thumb kept circling her swollen clit.  
  
While Yalene thoroughly enjoyed and savoured all those new sensations running through her body and clouding her mind, causing goosebumps and ragged breathing, there was something in his tone that made her all of a sudden more aware of that undercurrent of nausea and disgust she was also feeling. Whatever he did, be it that he seemed more enamoured with her reaction than the nimble movements of his fingers, the sheer overwhelming quality of all those new emotions or a certain, suggestive tone in his voice, there was a moment of clarity for her that swept that cloud of building desire away, reminding her of the reality of that murderous Druchii _pirate _working on her arousal with the routine of a seasoned veteran.   
  


Her eyes went wide open amidst that spike of panic, she wriggled herself out of his grasp and rolled on her side, her back turned to the Druchii. She did this in a quick motion that was only successful because it was so unexpected for both of them. Yalene could feel her heart racing in her chest, and underneath her that state of panic, there was still the echo of building desire, lust and the throbbing feeling at her inner thigh.  
  
_Compartmentalize_. She reminded herself. _You can be ashamed later.  
  
_At the very least he wasn’t offended and let her have her moment of peace. This moment didn’t last long, because rather suddenly, he jumped her from behind, wrapping her in a tight embrace, causing her to yelp in surprise. He didn’t lose any more time, his taut body pressing against her back and his hands roaming freely over her.  
  
“Your human perspective makes you unique – so unique that I just _need_ to have you.”, he whispered into her ear. She could feel his hardened member slipping between her thighs, sliding against her slick folds, but not entering just yet. One of his hands found her sensitive clit again, rubbing it in lazy movements, while he used his free hand to take hold of her throat, applying only the mildest of pressure. Instinctively, Yalene reached for his wrist, but did not dare to pull him away. All of his efforts t made her tingle and sigh in anticipation while the Druchii behind her kept talking, calmly and seemingly disregarding him grinding against her. “Your knowledge can be of use to me. You can answer questions I long to know.” He shifted, and she felt his thickness sliding inside her in agonizing slowness. Her body was stretching and accommodating him, but at first, it was still an uncomfortable and at the same time exhilarating sensation. Inch for inch, he pressed himself inside her, sighing contently without stopping in his speech.  
  
“I may be your best chance of survival. Those ignorant humans have tormented you enough. You said it yourself: There is no place for you among them anymore. But with me, your secret will be safe. What do you think, lovely dove?” The elf had paused in his movements, nibbling at her earlobe and allowing her to get used to the feeling of him filling her out, but that was not the reason that Yalene was writhing in his grasp. It was the truth that he spoke that caused her pain beyond measure. While she recognized that he was trying to play up his importance, shatter her trust in humanity and bind her to the Druchii’s cause, she also couldn’t deny the painful truth that he was right in the one thing that mattered: There was no place among humans for her anymore. Her dear friends had been gentle in telling her that she couldn’t go home again, and the Freiherr had been brutally honest. Her appearance marked her as a Dark Elf, not like the human she thought she was. That truth cut like a knife, making it difficult for her to hold back tears. The only thing that made this truth somewhat bearable was her arousal and the exciting, pleasant sensation of the man behind her pulling out and then re-enter in the same, agonizingly slow fashion as he had before, savouring her tightness.  
  
Panting and trembling, Yalene managed to whisper only a single question, one that occupied her mind more than any other. “What does it mean to be a Druchii?” She didn’t like that her voice sounded so soft and vulnerable.  
  
She felt the captain pause and hold her more tightly. For a moment, he seemed to be genuinely speechless, before she could feel his warm breath at her ear again as he whispered. “Let’s find out.” With these words, he rolled her on her stomach, for some reason managing to stay inside her, propping himself up on his elbows next to her body. Yalene found herself encased from all sides, the elf once more caressing and nibbling at her neck. His body heaved, and then he started pounding into her in earnest. She had heard so much about the feeling of being torn apart, of being flayed from within and all those horror stories. In her case, she felt little discomfort that quickly faded away.  
  
She had no idea what to do, since she could not move at all, and therefore decided to simply stay and let the sensations rain over her. Every now and then, she felt the Druchii captain nuzzling at her neck, caressing her hair or, weirdly, kissing her ears, but him vigorously thrusting inside her seemed to be the main event. She couldn’t deny that she took pleasure out of it, and that she found shivering release after that onslaught of sensations that quite frankly left her too overwhelmed to truly savour.  
  
He rode it out, kept thrusting into her until the last waves of pleasure had seceded. Only then, he bent down and whispered into her ear. “That’s what it means.”  
  
Yalene was still feeling echoes of her climax still flowing through her body, but as she heard him tell her in a manner that was just a touch too dramatic what it meant to be Druchii, she couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Trying to stifle it by burying her face into a pillow, it was simply impossible to suppress the girly giggle that was born out of the sheer ridiculousness of the drama-filled statement. That in itself was remarkable – she was used to being a poised and collected woman, and the last time she had giggled like a little girl had been decades ago. It was refreshing, to say the least, although a remarkably bad idea, judging from the frozen movements of the man pressing his hips against hers. Somehow, she didn’t think that Ruvol Blackwater took kindly to being laughed at.  
  
It took a moment that felt like an eternity before the Druchii pulled out and turned her around, hovering just above her. His face carried the echo of initial bewilderment, but now, his expression was that of good humour, thank goodness. This was the first time in what felt like a long while that she saw his face again – he was slick with sweat, his chest rising with each heavy breath and his long hair in slight disarray. The fact that he seemed to take her giggling fit in stride and had decided that his ego was not frail enough to be bothered by it, combined with his current appearance, made him look downright adorable in her eyes.  
  
“You are not wrong, I admit that.” He chuckled, shaking his head, reaching behind her and piling up cushions that he promptly guided Yalene down to lie on her back while she was still trying to contain her snickering. Ruvol didn’t seem to mind as long as she let him position himself between her legs again, bending down to face her while she was still suffering from the tremors of her amusement left in her body. In an effort to shut her up in the most charming way possible, he kissed her passionately, his tongue sliding in her mouth, playing with hers. His kiss left her breathless, hungry for more, but it also served to make her find her composure again. When Ruvol slowly pulled away, she could still feel his kiss lingering, prickling on her skin.  
  
“You are not the first to slip, if it is any consolation.” She whispered, stroking his cheek. “There are a lot of writers, poets even, that have written the darnedest things in written literature, especially erotica.”  
  
“I know, right?” The Druchii replied smiling, pitching his voice a little higher to mock a line for a decidedly female character. “Throw me over the edge of the cliff!”  
  
Yalene responded in kind. “You make me _so_ hard.”  
  
“Let’s paddle the pink canoe!”  
  
“Their tongues battled for dominance.”  
  
Ruvol closed his eyes, his face relaxed, as he shifted in her arms. Suddenly, she felt his warmth and smoothness filling her completely again, making her gasp. He opened his mouth, but his moan of pleasure remained soundless. “You are so tight.”  
  
“I will show you worlds beyond perdition ...” Yalene sighed.  
  
“… worlds beyond imagination.”  
  
The elf started moving again, this time merely rocking his hips. This time, Yalene was free to touch him at her heart’s content and move her body with his in harmony. The embers of pleasure within her were stoked again, letting out a soft sigh ever so often as she caressed the face of this strange, strange man. “Take me in the most manly fashion, you stallion you.”  
  
“Completely made up on the fly.” Ruvol objected between heavy breaths, his dark gaze fixed on her. “Try again.”  
  
“Milk me like a cow.”  
  
“I’m going to fuck you like an animal.”  
  
Yalene tsk-tsked, noting that this was also the point when the pleasant, rocking motions became thrusts, with him still looking her in the eyes between kisses. The game continued, more breathlessly than before, carefully cradling his face in her hands as she did so. “I love your face when you come.”  
  
“You are so beautiful.” If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he looked at her adoringly.  
  
“I want to be in your arms, live in your kiss ...”  
  
“… and die in your lap. Good book, good book.” He whispered, barely audible, as he slammed into her with abandon, thrusting so deep that Yalene was convinced that she would feel him hours later. Having embraced him, she could only hold him as he shuddered violently, burying himself inside her as deep as possible. She could feel his warm seed flowing inside her as he remained motionless, panting, clinging to the woman in his arms and pressing his cheek against hers in a gesture that seemed almost loving.  
  
Almost. He managed to shatter this fragile impression by staying only a few seconds like this. Then, he got up in a rather sudden movement and walked to one of his closed shelves, leaving Yalene baffled, tingling with desire and feeling supremely awkward.  
  
How utterly impolite. Apparently, the good captain used his afterglow to get himself a goblet of wine, which was a rather efficient use of time, since that allowed him to catch his breath and leave his bedfellow to muse at once about being used and discarded that quickly. It was also now time to feel ashamed, although Yalene thought that she ought to prioritize the feelings she had about being left alone immediately in his bed. She settled for awkward, abashedly closed her legs and got comfortable in the bed, provided she wasn’t kicked out in a second. A pity, because she had just started to enjoy his company.  
  
It turned out that the captain looked pensive as he returned to bed, offering her a goblet of wine, and when that was politely refused, he chugged it down. Placing it on the bedside table, he then finally did the polite thing, lying down facing her as he pulled her into his arms. Almost romantic, that. It was good enough for Yalene, who still felt awkward. So they lay there for a while in pensive and somewhat uncomfortable silence that she just had to break.  
  
“You know about Ludwig Schauberger?” She asked tentatively, not daring to speak louder than a whisper.  
  
Ruvol hummed affirmatively, taking one of her dark dresses in between his fingers and twirling it. “He’s one of your Empire’s greatest authors. I like to study the enemy, which incidentally, includes art. ‘Athorensia’ happens to be the only play I have ever read, but it made an impression.” No small wonder, since it was known to be tasteful and comprehensible to just about any audience.  
  
“I am just surprised that you would bother, but studying the enemy makes sense to me.” Even if the ‘enemy’ happened to contain her people, her countrymen. It was still somewhat comforting that a Druchii could respect imperial culture enough to bother with pieces of art and literature.  
  
“One of the reasons why I need somebody like you. ‘Athorensia’ was almost beyond my knowledge of Reikspiel. I need somebody to teach me that language properly while I’m at sea. The slaves I usually catch are either illiterate or uncooperative.” That this was a horrible thing to say didn’t occur to the captain, who ran one of his hands over her arms.  
  
“Does that include High Elf literature?”  
  
Asking that question might have been a mistake, since she could see the skin around his jaw tighten as he stewed over that question. “Yes. It’s better than I thought, I’ll give them that.”  
  
It seemed to be a sore subject for him, so Yalene approached the following question carefully and with as much tact as she could. “You said that you took me for an Asur spy earlier. Why?”  
  
“Two reasons. The first: your features look softer than usual for Druchii. You look more like somebody painted a High Elf with the wrong colour pattern. Add your strange accent and behaviour, and you can see my reasoning. Secondly: That’s exactly what they do.” He grumbled. “They sit all high and mighty on their island and are quietly scheming and conquering, only that they call it diplomacy. The truth is that their depravity is just more hidden. At the end of the day, we are just the same; Druchii are just more honest about it.” That mighty Druchii captain radiated wrath that should have intimidated Yalene, but in her eyes, he appeared weaker now. She understood that there was energy in righteous fury and that the Dark Elves in general and this elf in particular needed that rage to carry themselves through the day, but that man seemed now much like a boy in her eyes, a boy helpless in fury against something immaterial, like an invisible wall. It was that helplessness that marked him in her eyes, and the only thing that came to mind might have been the wrong idea – compassion. If he were a boy, she would now take him into her arms until he calmed down, and since the captain had his childish moments, she did the same for him, carefully reaching out and pulling him closer to allow him to rest his head against her naked shoulder.  
  
At first, Ruvol seemed baffled by the gesture, but soon enough, she felt him relax in her arms, even more so when she started to caress his hair. That the gesture served to soothe him was surprising enough; that he calmed down considerably could only be an improvement in this bed, though. After a while of simply resting at her shoulder, he resumed the whispered conversation. “What do your people think of mine? Please, don’t pull any punches; I know that it can’t be good.”  
  
Of course it wasn’t, but that was not something she would tell him. Just because there had been some sort of intimacy a short while ago didn’t mean that she could let her guard down. This was still a slaver, and she still didn’t think that the word ‘no’ was an option for her in this cabin. Likewise, she would tread lightly with any insult, lest she would see the face of that man again she had seen in the streets. So she chose her words carefully, as if reading a dry passage out of a history book. “The conflict between High Elves and Dark Elves is well known and has existed for thousands of years now. The coasts of the Old World fear Druchii military for their swift raids and naval expertise.”  
  
She felt him smile against her skin. “Never mind. That question is a bit much for the first day, hm? Besides, I can imagine all those stories about bloodthirsty monsters dragging you off to butcher and eat you, I suppose.” He chuckled. “Well, that’s mostly true from your perspective.”  
  
Yalene shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t answer.  
  
“Do you know why we have to catch slaves?”  
  
She shook her head, slipping her hand under his hair and stroking the back of his neck.  
  
“When our people first arrived at Naggaroth, there was only an army full of warriors – no peasants to till the fields, no miners to mine the ore, no artisans to practice their craft.” He shrugged. “So there was an army and no people to build a city. I guess what happened was the natural consequence. Ever since, little has changed – Druchii become part of the army, and slaves make it all work.”  
  
It was such a cruelly cold and pragmatic story, it made Yalene shiver. “Does that mean that every Druchii is a warrior of sorts?”  
  
“Almost.” The elf corrected her. “Some are slaves of their own, and then there some who don’t fight … a few artisans, like weaponsmiths, alchemists, chroniclers … but even they can’t work on the fields after their day of work. You see? That’s why slaves are needed.” That still didn’t make it right, she thought. Why a whole country couldn’t be bothered to have a few less warriors and have their fields in order in return was beyond her. But the elf wasn’t done just yet, shifting ever so slightly in her arms. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to fight. Researchers and chroniclers are rare enough. The way I see it, you fall roughly into that category. If you had a spark of magic in you, you might have had more possibilities than men.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Men are forbidden to learn magic.”  
  
That information gave her pause. “One of the most feared armies in the world is deliberately diminishing itself by not taking tactical advantage of a lot of potential wizards? Why is that?”  
  
“Our sorceresses wield their emotions with their magic. They are among the best and more than make up for the lack of male sorcerers.” He chuckled. “Other than that, there’s a prophecy that the Witch King will at some point be defeated by a male Druchii strong in the arts of magic. That’s why it’s forbidden. But how many actually defy that prophecy … who knows?” While he talked, Yalene remembered how she, Arnwald and Wiebke had mused about the fragility of the human skeleton once. For example, there was a certain cervical vertebra that could be broken with a minimum of effort … the one that was lying beneath her palm now, incidentally. There was also the notion of smothering him with a pillow when he slept. But if she was honest … could she really do that? She had motivation enough, ever since she had met him, he had been a force of destruction and misery, leaving a whole town in ruins in his wake and hauling most of its inhabitants still alive to a fate worse than death, while rationalizing slavery towards her, the woman who was treated well, but was still not allowed to be more than a plaything. Even more so, he seemed to be efficient in his profession. If he would die, it would be a minor blow to the Druchii as a whole. But the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that she couldn’t do it, no matter how casually cruel he talked about the need for slaves. She also felt that it would be somewhat rude to a person who had saved her life twice now and shown her kindness when she had needed it. She also couldn’t deny the fact that there had been some lovely moments this evening and that she could empathize with him in a sense, and she still could feel the echo of pleasure in her body, the shade of his kiss prickling on her lips. It didn’t matter for this question. It had everything to do with her refusal to threaten life and debase herself by committing a heinous act. In fact, that she had considered the mere thought was shocking to her.  
It was more likely, though, that she was just cowardly and shied away from violence on principle.  
  
“So you couldn’t learn magic even if you had the talent. That seems like such a waste.” She whispered, picking up on the conversation. “Do you dream of studying magic?”  
  
That question made him smile against her skin. “I never did. I’ve always wanted to be what I am today. Why dream of something that I can never have, when I can just fulfil my desires if I am bold, quick and clever enough?” There was a moment when the elf seemed to hold her a little tighter as he continued. “A friend of mine used to say that the dreams of slaves never failed to amuse her, always dreaming of things they could never possess.” It was striking how careful and respectful he used the word ‘friend’ in this context, as if that connection was a treasure untold. At the same time, he seemed awfully dismissive of the notion that slaves could have dreams, aspirations and wishes, which made Yalene involuntarily shiver.  
  
“Dreams help us to endure painful reality.” She whispered in a faraway voice, more to herself than to him.  
  
He didn’t respond per se, but the way the captain slowly and deliberately turned his head towards her immediately alerted her senses and told her that something was very wrong, and that the lazy and somewhat pleasant part of the conversation had come to an end. She was proven right immediately, since a moment later, he was on top of her again, looking awfully pleased with himself.  
  
“Speaking of dreams and reality … let’s go through your options now, shall we?” His tone was that of a man who knew that he was winning, no matter on which side the coin fell. “You can continue to dream of things you can’t have. Or!” Again, he adopted those speech patterns in which he stretched the vowels to appear more dramatic while he grinned down at Yalene seductively. “You can focus on things you can reach and face reality. Whether you like it or not, you are _mine_ now. I know ...” He smiled seemingly conciliatory while Yalene’s expression must have shifted from mildly concerned to indignant. “… that sounds bad, but it doesn’t have to be. I treat my property well enough, provided it does what I ask for. I can offer you so much, and all I ask for in return is _obedience_.” It wasn’t much, he said, when he was asking for the world without even noticing. As he talked, he grew more excited, going so far as to force himself between her legs again while he continued his speech. “I told you that I have needed a human scholar for the longest time now. I need somebody for research … you see, raiding villages for slaves and plunder is profitable enough, but I need another challenge, like finding treasure in Lustria or the Vampire Coast, or defeating one of the legendary Tomb Kings in combat and raiding their tomb. Just imagine!”  
  
There was no way to ignore or deny his excitement, since he pressed his cock against her lap, it was impossible not to notice that he grew harder at the sheer mention of treasure and glory. Yalene was far too baffled to even react and just looked up at him with wide eyes. That boyish smile on his face didn’t fade; instead, he smirked. “You must have some skills to help me. Don’t keep me guessing.”  
  
What a turn he had made there, and Yalene found that she wasn’t even angry at him; she was angry at herself that she hadn’t foreseen this turn of events. Instead, she had shared his bed, enjoyed his company and dared to find a good quality or two in him like a young, naïve little girl. She was old enough not to fall for that kind of trouble, and here she was, completely taken by surprise and growing angry about it. That frustration on her part translated into a defiant ‘Fine!’ ... he wanted to know what she could do? She would tell him. No need to hold back now.  
  
“I am fluent in the spoken and written word of six languages, not including Reikspiel. I possess intimate knowledge about Imperial History, law and theory of magic. Additionally, I used to be a scribe and librarian by trade.” She raised her head ever so slightly, glaring at him. “Also, my handwriting used to be pleasant to the eye.”  
  
“There are a lot of things about you that are pleasant to the eye, dove.” The arrogant smirk on the Druchii’s face was almost unbearable and made her wish that he would choke on his words. However, he seemed to relish the sight of her naked shape as he took a moment to regard her with thinly veiled conceit. “I can do with you what I want, when I want it. You have no idea how much that turns me on.” Oh yes, she had an idea. She could feel it. Ugh. “Just looking at you … I am in the mood to ravish you right now. But you are not in the mood right now, are you?” He teased her by rubbing his hardened member against her, but at least, he did nothing more. “Yes, your skills are useful to me. You have a decision to make now: Do you resist and end up forced to cooperate, or do you want to make an ‘agreement’ with me? Obedience is the only thing I want, as I told you. You will work for me and nobody else. I will treat you well, provided I am happy with you. What do you say?” With these words, he bent down towards her, his face hovering inches above hers, whispering suggestively. “Believe me, I would love it if we were to come to an _agreement_.”  
  
That ‘choice’ was no choice at all, and he knew it. This was just a ploy to get her to go along smoothly and seemingly of her own free will to create the illusion for him that he did not exactly force anybody. It made her sick to her stomach, and she made that perfectly clear by continuing to glare at him. “My survival instinct is in perfect working condition, thank you so much. Of course we have an agreement.” There was more. That surge of anger, in part at herself and her naivete, in part at the captain for getting her into that situation in the first place, was not something she was willing to ignore anymore, wisdom and patience be damned. She had cradled his face before, but now, she did the same gesture without any gentleness, grabbing his face and keeping him in place, inches from her face, as she looked him straight in the eye in a last act of defiance. “One word of caution: I am _obscenely_ lucky. Every game that has ever been thrown in my path, I won. That game you are playing? I will not lose. You have been warned.” That was unwise to the extreme and given recent events probably not entirely true anymore. But it had felt so good to give him at least a little bit of resistance before letting his face go.  
  
A moment later, she realized she really shouldn’t have done that, not because she provoked the wrath of the Druchii captain. Oh no, she had provoked something far more terrible. At her declaration, he had started to smile more broadly, grinning from ear to ear, his excitement beyond any measure.  
  
“What a pretty toy I’ve got today.” He sneered. With a sudden movement, he grabbed her by the throat, applying enough pressure to make her feel as she was choked. As she desperately tried to gasp for air, he continued, still grinning. “I will have a collar made for you, so that everybody can see that you are mine ...” Again, his face was close, far too close, the sadistic gleam in his eye shining brightly. “ … and so that you can never forget: I. Am. Your. Master. Now.” Loosening his iron grip around her throat, he didn’t allow her time to breathe. Instead, he covered her mouth with a crushing kiss, his hands running amok around her body. He was so lost in his passion, she could even feel him biting her neck and drawing blood.  
  
She tried to push him off, but this was an elf possessing a wiry strength and enough muscle to restrain her with ease. In the end, especially in regards to her position as a new slave, she realized with despair that there was nothing she could do. He was way too strong to fend him off. So she simply remained still, going limp and attempted to wait until he was done.  
  
Almost immediately, he stopped in his tracks, looking puzzled. He realized soon enough that she was not exactly a willing participant, which made any bluster evaporate in an instant. That was also true for goodwill, as was clearly annoyed. At least, it made him pull away from her and leave her alone, but he also rose from his bed, stepping away. He still had time for an icy glare before turning his back towards her.  
  
“Since sharing the bed with me seems to be beneath you, you can sleep with the others down in the hold.” He pointed at the door she had noticed earlier, the one that led below deck, but could only be accessed through the captain’s cabin. He didn’t say much more, but to Yalene’s eyes, he seemed like a boy again. Like a boy who was pouting.  
  
Still, this was better than what she had a minute before. Slowly, she sat herself up, only now noticing that she was shaking like a leaf. It took her a moment to regain her footing. Through the rushing of blood in her ears and her racing heartbeat, she could see him waiting for her to vacate the premises. How lovely. But she would not use a few honeyed words to soothe his wounded ego … he had to mend that himself.  
  
His tone was chilly when he addressed her again after a minute too long. “Get below and wait there until I have need of you.” He paused, before adding. “Send Hjördis up.”  
  
Whoever this Hjördis was, Yalene didn’t envy her. In fact, she felt relieved as she took her leave from that mercurial man that she was now stuck with.


	8. Sisters in arms and chains

It was a unique kind of shame to find oneself enslaved by a fickle Druchii and then being thrown out of his cabin in paradisical nudity for not being compliant enough. Furthermore, the way he had phrased it, Yalene was now effectively grounded for the time being. If she hadn’t been so occupied with feeling relieved, ashamed and exhausted, she would have found the situation morbidly hilarious.   
  
When she walked down to the hold, she could see that it was a small area currently dominated by hammocks in which a few women were already or still sleeping. Only one lantern was still lit, the older of the Bretonnian sisters sitting near and sewing. She was accompanied by a pretty, petite young woman with a dainty frame, darker skin and lustrous black hair. Both of them looked startled when they spotted her, blinking for several moments as Yalene addressed them in the most polite manner possible to gloss over the ridiculous fact that she had just barged into their cabin unannounced and bare-naked.   
  
“I’m supposed to send Hjördis up.”   
  
The two women exchanged glances, and it was the petite woman who nodded silently, then hurried towards one of those hammocks to whisper a few words, while the Bretonnian woman rose, handing Yalene a blanket so that she could cover herself, thank goodness.   
  
“I’m Mireille. Let’s … just keep our voices down.” She was clearly a little flustered, which all things considered, was a good sign. That meant that this sort of thing was out of the ordinary. “Who are you? What happened?”  
  
“I’m Yalene and a misunderstanding happened.”, she tried to smile, but that endeavour was doomed to fail. In the background, she could see that another young woman was woken up, rose and changed from the undyed nightshirt that they all wore to a loose robe, ready to be thrown off in a moment’s notice. That was supposedly that poor Hjördis woman. The name itself indicated Norscan descent, and her appearance as a golden-haired, athletic beauty only cemented that impression. She also noted that this particular woman wore chains around her feet that made moving quickly difficult, while the other women did not. Yalene didn’t have much time to observe the Norscan any longer, since she hurried upstairs on bare feet, leaving her with Mireille, who seemed industrious and practical enough to prepare a small bowl of water and a cloth.   
  
“Alright, let’s wash you up first, then get you some rest. We will discuss everything else later.” The Bretonnian said in a tone that could be interpreted as motherly and friendly, although Yalene could sense an underlying sense of concern, even anxiety. Still, she was thankful for the opportunity to scrub the traces of that druchii captain off her body, while the other two women still awake helpfully prepared a hammock. If it were only possible to wash off anything druchii about her with a cloth and a little water, she thought bitterly. There was a slight, burning sensation on her neck where the captain had bitten her, and when Yalene tentatively touched it, she found a slight smear of blood on her fingers. If he had injured her seriously, she would be bleeding more profusely, but it was a minor annoyance to have the skin broken at such a sensitive spot. Mireille had noticed this little bite as well, and was quick to quickly patch it up without commenting on it, for which Yalene was thankful.   
  
She found herself tucked into bed shortly thereafter, clad in a nightshirt and wrapped in what seemed to her like a reasonable, clean blanket as the lights were doused and the small group of women went to sleep. That didn’t mean silence, though, since the wooden walls of any ship allowed for a lot of sound to travel freely. Yalene could hear the muffled sounds of pain and crying from prisoners, as well as loud and lustful moaning from above, in the captain’s cabin.   
  
Now was the time to feel desperate and ashamed of herself, and those feelings had been suppressed long enough. It was almost comical, only that she wasn’t able to laugh about it this time: This vessel was filled with people who only stopped inflicting pain when they had to sleep, and the only reason she was not treated like those other slaves, caged like cattle, or slain was intrinsically tied to this new form she was wearing. Appearance was something that people were born with and born to; beauty was highly subjective, fleeting and often deceptive in regards to nature. She had never been beautiful before and had never wanted to be. And yet, it wasn’t wit or grace or any strength of her own, but rather that change in appearance of all things, an accident out of her control that had saved her, but also condemned her … and this was embarrassing. She had done nothing to deserve life in this situation other than breathing.   
But what to do with this situation and this form, this skin she was now bound to? She could never be one of those cruel creatures that the Druchii were, so she assumed that she was human with pointy ears and a longer lifespan. Even if she framed it that way in her mind, the events of today were harrowing, and her survival could only been attributed to the one thing that she had never cared about and was not about to start now. Druchii were the best examples of this: they were beautiful creatures in their own right, but they had just wrecked hundreds of lives, and that true core made them appalling.   
  
_‘I look just like them. Shallya help me, I’m a Dark Elf.’ _  
  
At that thought, she had to shake her head emphatically to guide herself to reason again. _‘Never mind that.’_, she thought. _‘You are nothing like them. Deeds and mindset are more important than appearance.’_. That was the comforting truth that Yalene needed for herself. It was true that she looked differently and that she was enslaved by an overly enthusiastic and sadistic manchild. Said manchild seemed to take some strange satisfaction out of owning something exotic and unique, like the strange creature she had become. Provided Ruvol Blackwater possessed a greater attention span than a goldfish, Yalene would be as safe as any domestic slave on a Druchii vessel could be. Even if he was currently dissatisfied with her. Note to self: If she wanted to avoid rocking the boat, it seemed that merely offering no resistance wouldn’t suffice. The captain had been downright insulted by her simply not participating and showing indifference. Well, if she wanted to survive, she would have to learn to pretend, and even thinking this filled her with disgust.   
  
But what other chance was there?  
  
No matter how overly dramatic the captain had proven himself to be, his words were no less true: There was no place among humans for her any more. Even if she managed by some miracle to reach her original destination, Altdorf, it was far more likely that she would be put to death either through the mark on the back of her hand or by revelation of her nature. But would that matter? At the end of the day, in the eyes of humans, she was part of a cruel race in the worst case. In the best case, she was merely a lost elf.   
  
That sentiment rang true. Yalene was lost in so many ways, and the world seemed to make so little sense now. _‘Survival has priority.’_, she thought. There was currently no room for elaborate plans, but there was room for resolve.   
She would find a way to escape by mentally going into stealth. She would keep her head down, do her duty, be pleasant and smile and nod while she would patiently wait for a chance to leave this ship, and she would do so without debasing herself by spilling blood or harming anybody. It was possible that it would be a long, long time before opportunity arose. It could take months, perhaps even years. It didn’t matter; it only mattered that she would escape eventually. She would not be tempted by an early chance or risk her life needlessly, nor would she offer anything more to her captors than a behaviour that implied that she was resigned to her fate. She wasn’t. It would be a heroic plan to plan for some sort of mutiny and free each and every slave, but no matter how tempting it sounded, that was not a realistic plan. If opportunity arose, she would take it, but deep down, Yalene knew that this would not work. If this was a lone ship, it was feasible, but this was a small flotilla consisting of four ships; if one of them had a mutiny on their hands, the others would intervene quickly. No, if she ever wanted to succeed, she had to do so quietly and wait for an opportunity. Efficiency was rarely heroic, but she would rather be the former than the latter.   
  
Now that she thought about it, the thought of her, Yalene Hoffmann, having been demoted to pleasure slave was just so absurd. In fact, in light of recent events, she found this to be more funny than traumatic. Still, that lout Ruvol didn’t seem like the type to leave her alone from now on. It could be worse, she surmised, as this man styled himself a seducer and at least initially seemed to care about his bedfellow’s pleasure. Since she could still feel said pleasure echoing in her body, he also knew what he was doing. Besides, Yalene highly doubted that she had to spend much time with him. Judging from her own few trips on sea and the stories of her brother, life at sea was mostly boring for everybody but the captain. If Druchii hierarchy and structure was anything close to Imperial ships, the captain would spend most of his day either on deck or with his officers, leaving only a portion of the evening. Even then, she had counted no less than seven hammocks in this hold, hers not included. This hold was quite cramped, even for the standards of the sea. With a collection of women like that, he would not have that much time to spare, and she didn’t have to endure his antics that much. Besides, with impatient men like him, the shine of something new wore off quickly and they got bored if they received the impression that they couldn’t conquer anything more. It made her wonder how many women had passed through this hold already.   
  
The sounds from above had died down, but the muffled ones of the caged slaves did not. Trying to drown out those thoughts, she pulled her blanket over her head. It helped only a little, but in her private little darkness, as sleep was reluctant to claim her, Yalene wondered if the new subtlety of her witchsight was only temporary. Was magic an art and talent of the soul or the body, or perhaps both? It seemed that wizards tended to sire wizards themselves, and that bloodline was a factor, while elves in general were known to be creatures with an affinity to magic. Perhaps her talent was too little for this body, or this body was unresponsive towards magic.  
  
She had only cast one spell since she had died, but even not knowing the peculiarities of this body, it took little effort as she reached for the small glimpse of inspiration at the edge of her perception, weaving it into a whispered intonation that she had been taught tightly into her cupped hands. It seemed like little fireflies were gathering at her palm, glowing in a soft, warm and purely white light, so faint and fleeting that it barely lasted for two seconds and was just enough to light her palms, just as she had intended. Magic carried on and to Yalene’s relief, no disaster happened. In fact, creating this little light had been a strangely comforting experience, as if something of hers had survived and could even thrive in time. This was her secret, hers alone, and not even the Druchii could take that from her.   
  
She could live with that.   
  
The night ended fast, with the face of the Bretonnian youth hovering over hers, smiling kindly. “Rise and shine! We’ll have breakfast in a minute.” The youth was gone before Yalene could answer, propping herself up slowly.   
  
In her human body, she had been almost nocturnal; but how this elf worked, especially after her long stint in prison, she simply didn’t know. Without the light of day, there was no way to tell how early or late it was. However, Mireille and her sister were already awake and dressed, while the petite woman from earlier that night was still in her nightshirt. The same was true for a statuesque Druchii, lounging on the floor with the regal air and entitlement of a queen and regarding her with the curiosity one would reserve for a brightly- coloured insect – slightly entertaining, but ultimately fated to be crushed under a heel. When Yalene, still a little tired, sat herself down with the other women, it was that Druchii who wordlessly handed a steaming cup filled with a dark, foul-smelling liquid to her.   
  
“Drink that. It’s Meherlasroot tea.” If that elf would insist on huffing a little louder, she would keel over from the size of the chip on her shoulder. Still, there was probably a reason why she was given that cup, and the unvoiced question must have shown on her face, since Mireille added. “We wouldn’t want to have pregnancies on this ship.”   
  
That made sense. Visibly reassured, Yalene began to sniff carefully at the liquid. That was indeed foul, but taking even a small sip made her realize that the taste didn’t do the smell justice. She could feel herself recoil at the foul, sickeningly bitter and biting taste. That made the other Druchii chuckle, albeit in a way that merely underlined that she was a little puzzled.   
  
“Let it cool off and then down it at once. You must be barely out of your diapers if you don’t know that.” In another woman’s voice, there would have been concern, but this Druchii seemed to low-key mock her. “When was the last time you bled?”  
  
Harrijassesne! By Ulric’s right buttcheek, that was embarrassing. Young people had women’s issues and moon cycles to content with. But she had gone into early menopause a decade ago and literally had no idea how fertile elf women were, what their periods looked like and if it was anything alike for them as for a human. Her helpless silence lasted a little too long for comfort and enough to provide an actual answer, as she could see that the expression on the other Druchii’s face turned to disgust as she threw her arms up.   
  
“Wonderful. Now he takes little children into his bed.” Her indignation seemed sincere; even Evil seemed to have standards, and molesting minors seemed to be a taboo even for Druchii, or at the very least this one. She then turned to Mireille, her voice dripping with acid as she clearly taunted her. “Who’s next? Our darling Agnés?”  
  
“I’ll be fifteen in five months.” The youth piped up with her thick, Bretonnian accent. “I’ve had my cycles for a month now. I’m old enough!” She was quickly shushed by her sister and the Druchii, both of them hissing in unison that no, she was not.   
  
While Yalene watched the verbal exchange, she allowed the implications to sink in. First, it was a good thing that apparently, Druchii or at least this Druchii woman and the captain seemed to have some moral standard when it came to children, or in this case, a youth. That was good. In all that misery and suffering Dark Elves wrought, it was a relief. Then she returned to the thought that of course, since she was younger now, she was also able to conceive again. There was no way that she would want to now, and especially not when the captain was involved. Yuck, the thought alone was nauseating. But someday, when she would leave all of this behind, the possibility to have children was strange, to say the least. All her life, she had resigned herself never to have any offspring and had more than made up for it by loving her nieces, nephews and Finja to bits, spoiling them like only an aunt could. Rhya’s grace, she had been so excited for the next planned trip to Dietershafen to visit her nephew’s family and the newborn grandniece in two weeks. She still yearned to see that new member of the family, and right now, there was nothing she would not do to be able to travel there.   
  
One had to consider that trip as cancelled.   
  
It was the Druchii’s voice that pulled her out of her thoughts. “How old are you anyway?”  
  
Since Yalene knew next to nothing about elven anatomy, she thought that she just might stay true to that fact. “I don’t know. I have trouble remembering.” To her utter surprise, the women in the room frowned, but seemed to take this hastily concocted lie seriously.   
  
“How did that happen?”, the Druchii asked, still a little unconvinced.  
  
“Damned if I know. I don’t remember.”  
  
That dry retort was enough to stop that line of questioning, so the Dark Elf woman merely frowned again, then shrugged. “He’s insane, but we already knew that. Why would he pick up a waif like you? Oh, don’t answer that.” She huffed, clearly not willing to be interrupted. “If he wanted a clueless thing, why didn’t he take an Asur slave? He has been planning to catch one for ages now. At least they mean prestige. You don’t.”  
  
_‘So you don’t mean prestige either? That is a sad thought.’_, Yalene thought, but in the revered _Esprit d’escalier_, she decided not to voice this particular thought and instead to opt for a more diplomatic and polite approach. “An Asur slave would be too steeped in her own arrogance to ask a clearly more experienced woman for advice. I have no such qualms.” She had worded her response as carefully as possible; while this Druchii woman seemed ridiculously confrontational, they would probably have to spend a lot of time together, and there was nothing gained by alienating her.  
  
At first, Cevirin merely reacted with a vaguely disgusted-sounding noise, but then the young Bretonnian girl piped up. “That means that she is your little sister now?”  
  
The charm and cleverness of the teenage girl was not to be underestimated, since the Druchii scoffed again, but then obviously warmed up to the idea and grudgingly gave some advice.   
  
“We are fruitful two times a year for a full month each. Afterwards, you get to bleed for two weeks. Since you don’t know when your fertile cycle starts, we have to be careful that you drink that tea every week to prevent an accident, until we figure out your cycles. Let’s just hope that you have cycles already. You look young, maybe you truly haven’t had bled yet. How troublesome.” Then, she started smirking. “Perhaps we don’t even need to check if we have enough Meherlasroot until we return home. But given your last night’s performance, we might not need it at all ...”  
  
Before the Druchii could spew more poisonous and disgusting nonsense, Mireille interrupted. “Captain Blackwater wants her to stay and his word is law. As for the root … I’ll see what I can do.” The Dark Elf looked taken aback and as if she wanted to start a discussion, but the Bretonnian cut her off, not even pretending that she was pleased with this kind of exchange, turning towards Yalene. “Now you have met Cevirin. As she has mentioned, this is Agnés ...” She tapped the youth on the shoulder, who smiled politely. Then, Mireille pointed at the ceiling. “Hjördis, the woman you saw yesterday, is still asleep in the captain’s cabin. Katharina is currently on deck.” The next tap on the shoulder went to the petite woman with those beautifully dark eyes. “This is Rahat.” The name sounded decidedly Arabyan. Said woman smiled shyly before she cast her eyes down. Then, Mireille pointed to the person still lying in her hammock, her back turned to the small group, hair a dark brown mess. “At as far as I understood, her name is Lavinia. She was picked up two weeks ago from a cargo vessel. She speaks only Tilean, and nobody around here knows her language, so we aren’t quite sure what to do with her.”   
  
Poor girl. What a frightening situation, having been caught by cruel slavers and then finding herself without any means to communicate, any chance to connect with anybody. Originally, Yalene had determined that it was best to hide how many languages she understood, but now, she found herself to look forward to breaking that illusion. Tilean, like Classical, was almost an obligatory language to learn when studying linguistics, literature, art and poetry, due to the rich Tilean culture. Her Tilean hadn’t been used for a long while and was admittedly rusty, but she was positive to be able to at least carry a basic conversation in that language.   
  
“More about Lavinia later … just don’t take it personally when she starts shouting at you. She is troubled at times.” Mireille stated in an apologetic tone, brow furrowed in mild concern as she stole a look to the Tilean’s hammock.   
  
“If she keeps this up, she’ll end up thrown to the rest of the crew along with Hjördis. She won’t last long. Troublemakers, both of them.” Cevirin pointed out warily.   
  
“Enough of this.” Mireille countered, more gently than it was merited, as she addressed Yalene again. “We let Lavinia and whoever master took to bed that night sleep as long as they like. Two of us rise an hour before the captain does and help him with his morning routine. One of us is always with him … today, it’s Katharina.” Yalene remembered that there was a mess of ginger locks in the hammock next to her. The name was popular in the Empire and Kislev as well, but the way that Mireille had pronounced it, the ginger girl seemed to be Imperial. A countrywoman … that meant that she had to be careful, lest she slipped and accidentally revealed her secret. Mireille kept instructing her about the rules of this little conglomeration of slaves, who all seemed to fulfill the role of steward on this vessel. “When he’s on deck, we meet for breakfast and plan the work schedule for the day.” She smiled apologetically. “You can’t exactly be part of that schedule right now, since you are not collared. I have told master about that little scratch on your neck ...” How politely she had phrased that, since it was basically a serious love bite. “ … and he doesn’t want to risk it being infected by wearing a collar. So you can’t leave this hold aside from going to the bathroom, and you can’t be seen by anybody right now.” Oh great. While the reasoning was slyly put as a valid health concern, she was actually confined to the women’s quarters, grounded like a misbehaving child.   
  
Speaking of collars, Yalene noticed that the collars the women were wearing were all customized, to the point where the one that Mireille wore was more akin to a necklace lying tightly around the throat, and could even be taken as such. Agnés even wore what seemed like a finely crafted choker, but seemed comfortable to wear. It was strange, since she clearly remembered both of them wearing heavy collars made of metal when she had first seen them yesterday. It was possible that they just added those metal collars when they were on deck, or in plain sight. Shy Rahat wore a collar made of soft, black leather, so finely made that it wouldn’t have surprised Yalene if such collars would at one point in time be current fashion in Reikland … now that she looked at the woman, she also noticed thin, long burn scars on her thighs. This poor girl had been through a lot, that much was plain.   
  
The collar Cevirin wore looked more like a torque, made of metal, but fine, polished and even gilded – the decadence. Furthermore, she wore decorative cloth underneath, which had to be complementary to any dress she would wear when fully clothed and prevent any chafing. But no matter how comfortable to wear, how expensive or how pretty, these were still slave collars, all of them containing a ring for fastening a leash, and every single one of them containing a small marking that presumably identified their owner.   
  
“You will stay here and help me with any sewing.” Mireille concluded. “Very well then, I’ll get breakfast.”  
  
“Drink your tea.” Cevirin reminded Yalene in a saccharine tone. “And pray that breakfast will be able to make you forget that taste.”   
  
It turned out that it didn’t. Yalene was surprised that this much fruit would be served with porridge, but then remembered that the Dark Elves had just sacked a mansion with presumably a full larder. There was enough fruit that thrived in the cold and rainy weather, some even in snow. She happened to know for a fact that on Imperial vessels, quickly perishable fruit was consumed first, since nothing should ever be wasted at sea. So fruit, vegetables and bread were the first to be eaten. What happened when the Druchii weren’t eating stolen food? Yalene wouldn’t put it past them that even their rations were dark, sadistic and plain evil enough to bite back and ramble in endless, mindless hate in addition to being complicated.   
  
Sigmar’s sizzling sausages. Now she couldn’t stop eyeing her bowl of porridge.   
  
Her stomach was in knots anyway, so after a few spoonfuls of mostly eating the fruit, she had to stop. To her relief, nobody pressured her to eat more, and the rest of her ration was offered to Agnés, her still being a growing girl. Afterwards, the other women discussed the chores for the day. Yalene noticed that it was indeed correct that Agnés was putting on the metal collar she had noticed the day before, and that it was no other than her sister, who not only held the key, but fastened it. What a twisted state of affair. She then left with the other two women, leaving Yalene with Mireille and the sleeping Tilean.   
  
When they were mostly alone, Mireille turned to her, again looking awfully apologetic. “So sorry about Cevirin. She’s rude to everybody, so don’t take it personally.”  
  
“No worries.” She replied dryly. “Truth to be told, I almost like her. She’s funny.” At Mireille’s baffled expression, Yalene started to chuckle. “Somebody who is so unabashedly bitter … why, I can almost respect that. It is kind of amusing that she makes so much effort to be nasty, but her supposedly biting remarks turn out to be surprisingly tame. Let’s take it for what it is.” Besides, Yalene could not remember a single instance in which she had been shamed for lack of sexual prowess. Slutshaming was common, prude shaming as well, but shaming somebody for not pleasing a man enough … that sounded like the dumbest thing any badly written in-law in a cheap novel would ever conceive, and Yalene had never heard anybody stating something so comically insane. Besides, this woman looked perpetually standoffish and bitter; since they were all in a bad situation, who was she to judge a woman for venting a little, especially if it was so amusing? And as for anything Cevirin had said, Yalene found that the only thing she could feel about it was the pleasant awareness of how little she cared about that Druchii’s comments and that she was just too exhausted to give a damn.   
  
The Bretonnian seemed still baffled, but eventually nodded. “Very well. I need to take your measurements and see what I can find to get you dressed.” She regarded Yalene with the look of a professional. “You are a bit taller than the humans around here, but not as tall as Cevirin. You also have vastly different body types … this won’t be easy.” She sighed, and Yalene could see what she meant. From what she had seen, the good captain had a preferred type of woman, since every human in this hold she had seen had a curvy figure. Rahat possessed a voluptuous beauty and smouldering, dark eyes, moving with grace. If she had more confidence and weren’t so shy, she could have easily swayed a crowd with just a glance. Mireille and Agnés were very similar, pretty women with fine features and shapely figures. Even the Norscan, Hjördis, seemed to gravitate towards a fuller shape, despite her athletic figure. Cevirin however was different: as an elf, she was bound to have a lithe frame, as Yalene had as well, but if one compared the two women in their elven appearance, Cevirin was clearly embodying the traditional beauty standard, with long limbs, slender hips and slightly angular features. Yalene in comparison had considerably softer features and a more … human shape, for the lack of another word. For a human, she would be average. For an elf, she was curvaceous. For a seamstress, as Mireille turned out to be, this was a nightmare.  
  
While Mireille took her measurements, she tentatively started a conversation. “You have never been in this situation, haven’t you?” Yalene shook her head, as the other women continued just as carefully. “But you were caught on Imperial soil, weren’t you? What were you doing there?”  
  
“I don’t remember.” This was the easiest and at the same time least helpful, which made Mireille sigh.   
  
“Very well. We will start from the beginning with you, then. If you want to stay alive, try not to anger our master again.” Yalene had to suppress a disgusted noise, but nodded dutifully as the other woman continued in a matter-of-fact fashion. “Chores are light and you are well-cared for. It doesn’t get better than this in the service of the Druchii. You’ll stay here for now, but eventually, your chores will lead you on deck. You are Captain Blackwater’s property, so nobody from the crew is allowed to touch you. If they do, come to me or tell the captain at once; it’s important for him to know so that his men don’t get out of line. Don’t look anybody from the crew in the eyes unless you're having a conversation with them, keep your eyes down and don’t be a bother.” This last seemed to be important and also the subtext of that little introduction into being an obedient slave – the Bretonnian woman was for some reason in a position to organize their little group, and she had decided to take her duty seriously. A new, unruly slave would be more than just bothersome for her; if she was responsible, then an unruly slave mouthing off to Druchii could cost her dearly. Yalene also noted that Agnés and Mireille both used Eltharin in a way that was simple, yet functional, which was quite common for non-native speakers who had been taught a complicated language by practice and oral teaching. She had to force herself to focus on the fact that unruly slaves spelled trouble for Mireille personally, and as it looked, at least the Tilean seemed to already take that role.   
  
“I do not intend to make any trouble.” Yalene replied quietly, which made the other woman sigh in relief.   
  
“Thank you.” It sounded genuine. “Say, can you read and write?” When Yalene nodded, Mireille smiled faintly. “Good. Sometimes, I just need somebody who can read the elven language. It might be best if I could turn to one more person other than Cevirin.”  
  
That seemed fair. It would have been surprising if Mireille were able to read at all, since the peasants in Bretonnia were awfully suppressed and kept ignorant and undereducated. It was also well known that smaller communities were inbred to oblivion, so it was to be concluded that these two sisters had come from a larger city. But instead of speculating, it seemed more prudent to ask the woman herself.  
  
“If I may ask … where do you come from?”  
  
“Baux-de-Veune in Lyonesse.” The way the woman answered was almost too casual, too factual and devoid of emotion. “Six years ago, it was raided by an alliance between the Captain Blackwater’s flotilla and another ship, or so I understand.”  
  
“How did you survive?”  
  
“Grovelling.” Her smile was faint, tinged with sadness and loss. “Grovelling, grovelling and even more grovelling. When the Druchii threw their nets everywhere, I just had to do something. So I grabbed my baby sister by the hand and ran towards the first Dark Elf that looked as if he was in charge, threw myself on my knees and grovelled. I promised him my services and my body for as long as I lived if he would only let my sister go. The first mate was in a good mood and translated, Captain Blackwater kind of accepted and here we are. I didn’t know at the time that Blackwater had just overthrown his father, the former captain of his vessel, and had decided that he would only keep Cevirin of all the slaves he had inherited.”  
  
Somehow, it didn’t surprise her that patricide was mentioned just casually with this man. Yalene also didn’t even want to know what happened to rejected slaves when the inevitable backstabbing and bloodshedding in the name of promotion began. It was also disturbing to even imagine that the Captain would ‘use’ his father’s slaves. It was even more disturbing to know that Agnés had spent half of her life as a Druchii slave and possibly didn’t know anything else anymore. “It was lucky that he was actually looking for personal slaves. When he heard that I had finished my training as a seamstress and Agnés had already started to learn the craft, he claimed us immediately.” She tipped her chin. “He received Rahat as a gift from an Arabyan trader three years ago. Ironically, she’s spent her whole life either on Druchii or Arabyan vessels and was always gifted or sold as a dancer. Don’t bother her asking for stories … she doesn’t can’t speak. Some slaver must have taken her tongue before she came here. But she still talks plenty with her face and hands.” That was just horrible. To mutilate other human beings was despicable, and for some reason, it was even worse that this had been done by fellow human beings. Additionally, spending one’s whole life presumably on slaver vessels just had to take a toll, especially when one was traded back and forth. Given that background, Rahat seemed remarkably well-adjusted.   
  
Mireille continued. “Lavinia and Hjördis were caught two months ago after battles with their ships. As I said, Lavinia only speaks her language that nobody understands. Hjördis speaks her Norscan language and a few words of Reikspiel, so only Katharina can understand at all what she is saying. Katharina herself was singled out after a raid on an Imperial village after Captain Blackwater spotted her two years ago. She was a servant, I think. Anyway, he just liked how she looked, and she has been his favourite ever since.” And his favourite she shall remain if the woman liked that. That was a lot to take in and a lot of tragedy for one little part of the hold.  
  
“So …” Yalene began with as much tact as she could muster. “ … you fulfilled your end of the bargain. Can’t he just fulfil his part?”  
  
Mireille shrugged. “And then what? Let’s say she returns to Bretonnia, safe and sound, and reaches our uncle in the neighbouring town. She will still have to pay most of her earnings to a noble who can’t be bothered to protect his people when they need him. She will still starve in winter, still be harassed by entitled nobles if they fancy to do so and still be beaten when she says one word out of line. Thanks, she does well enough here.” It was heartbreaking to see this woman say those words that Yalene knew were the bitter truth. From Mireille’s perspective, Bretonnia had failed her, and the only people ever to have shown her kindness had possibly killed a large part of her family. Yet it was the Bretonnians that she held responsible, in part for good reason. The peasantry works and the Bretonnian Knights protect … that was the bargain. It might not have been possible to dispatch enough forces in time, but the simple fact was that the nobles had not delivered. So Mireille made the very best of the situation she was in, but no matter how much she stressed that the women in this hold were well-treated, that this was the best that could have happened, that they would not be abused, it was still wrong. Ruvol Blackwater still had stolen their freedom and agency from them and had made himself to be the centre of their lives. No matter how much sugar was used to coat this truth, it was still the truth. It just so happened that Mireille had been deprived of these things first. Still, what kind of world was this when a woman considered her family being enslaved or killed and herself being enslaved by Dark Elves a lucky turn in her life?  
  
“Does he … you know, take a slave to his bed every night?” It seemed strange to ask so directly, but Mireille didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her response seemed remarkably casual.   
  
“He does, Agnés excluded. He jokes that he just waits until she is an adult, but I’m not certain if that is true any longer. He doesn’t seem the type to sleep with a girl he has watched growing up, and I think the thought makes him uncomfortable. Cevirin hasn’t been called into his cabin in four years, and he calls Rahat up for mostly for entertainment, music and dancing. She also plays a mean game of cards, which he likes. I think they have some naughty game within a game going on there. He sleeps with me occasionally, but most of the time when I get called up, we snuggle a little and I get a good night’s sleep. But we all know that we will not sleep well when Katharina, Hjördis or Lavinia are in his cabin. Loud romping, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. Although with Hjördis, everybody can tell that it’s pure, mutual hate.” She almost rolled her eyes, before her gaze wandered to the hammock in which the Tilean was lying, while Yalene still tried to process a sentence that contained a Dark Elf and snuggling in one breath without being a joke. When she thought about it, he had been rather enthusiastic about the post-coitus snuggle. Huh. Even monsters and bastards had the need for snuggling. That sounded so wrong.   
  
To preserve her sanity, she followed Mireille’s gaze. “Do you think she’s awake?”  
  
“Oh, she is.”  
  
“Will she be upset if she sees another slave?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Will she be upset if she sees another Druchii?”  
  
“Definitely.” The Bretonnian raised her voice a little. “Lavinia! You can’t stay there all day.”  
  
The answer came in the form of a disgusted noise that, if written down, Yalene would have spelled ‘ugh’. Then, the Tilean finally turned her head towards both of them, only to spot Yalene and promptly throw a pillow at her. The first missed, but the second one hit its mark beautifully in the face. Something that was not in Yalene’s vocabulary but sounded suspiciously like a dismissive judgement about Dark Elves in general and how she was fed up with them was grumbled afterwards. Mireille watched impassively with a somewhat resigned look on her face, as if she, just like Yalene, was merely waiting until the Tilean stopped her demands that the Druchii should leave her alone at once. From what Yalene could understand, her parentage, her supposed profession as a prostitute, her nether regions and the nether regions of her mother were all called out in colourful detail.   
  
The Tilean then rose clumsily to her feet, sat down and kept chatting in her own tongue about things that were too fast for Yalene to understand. In the end, she held up a hand.   
  
“Slower, please.” Two simple words in a language half-forgotten, words that Yalene had to truly think about before she had interjected calmly. She also could hear that her accent was terrible, but it was enough to give both of the other women pause and stare at her in surprise. A whole ship full of Dark Elves, and none of them had taken the time to learn a common language like this and had to be helped out by a soul-misplaced human scholar. That wasn’t funny. She let the silence speak for itself.  
  
Lavinia now stared at her, unblinking, and Yalene could see why the Captain had taken a liking to her. She was a beauty, skin in a darker hue, heart-shaped face and the most beautiful, expressive hazel eyes that now welled with tears. Lavinia didn’t remain a statue and stumbled towards Yalene, didn’t care that she was sitting on the floor and just let herself fall on the ground and buried her face in Yalene’s lap, sobbing her heart out.   
  
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” She whispered in her melodic tongue, over and over again. “You have no idea what it’s been like.”   
  
“Lonely.” Yalene merely replied understandingly, stroking over the younger woman’s hair.


	9. Rules of Engagement

“Good Morning, sunshine!” Yalene singsonged and gave the sheets covering the resting human woman a careful tug.  
  
“Go away. I hate you all.” Lavinia groaned in response and demonstratively buried her face in the pillows of the captain’s bed.   
  
“True, but you hate me a little bit less.”  
  
“Don’t care. Don’t want to get up. It’s cold.”  
  
“We have breakfast down below.”  
  
“Not hungry.”  
  
“Yes, you are.” Yalene replied cheerfully, and for a moment there, she thought that she heard the other woman’s stomach rumble a bit, although it was perfectly possible that this was just vivid and wishful imagination.   
  
“… Did they hang the ship’s cook at last?”  
  
“Not yet, but I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time.”  
  
“Yuck. I’m staying in bed, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”  
  
Technically, that was true. As long as Lavinia didn’t tantrum before the eyes of the crew or questioned Captain’ Blackwater’s orders even implicitly before anybody else other than his personal slaves, she could pretty much act with impunity. Despite the fact that two of the three newest additions to his hold – namely herself and the Tilean - were pretty much confined to it and his quarters, the elf was surprisingly lenient in his conduct. Yalene did have some anxiety about regular beatings and a lot of angry yelling, but nothing of this had materialized, nor was it common among the captain’s slaves. From the sounds she could overhear on this ship, she had been incredibly lucky to count herself among those women in the hold, who were sheltered from the wrath of the crew. As for the wrath of the captain, she had only seen a glimpse of it; the true wrath and hate was reserved for the beautiful Norscan woman he had captured a while ago. Hjördis was the only one carrying her chains, and she was the only who was reportedly on occasion mistreated. She was definitely on the receiving end of rough bed-acrobatics, as far as the nightly noise with her indicated.   
  
Currently, the Norscan was busy securing the captain’s cabin like any reasonable sailor would and as it was her job. The troubled sea was enough to warrant such action, but as far as she had heard, there was a storm front on the horizon that would be hard to circumnavigate. With the ship’s movements now more heavy, Yalene knew at least intellectually that any experienced crew was able to deal with weather like this with ease. Of all the women in the hold, she was the only one new to extended travel at sea, having only resided on ships before as a guest for a few weeks at most. But aside from Lavinia and Hjördis, all of the slave-women had been serving the Druchii captain for years. The Tilean for her part had been a navigator on her ship, trying to survive and thrive in a world that was still dominated by men. No wonder she was completely unconcerned with the current motion of the sea.   
  
Hjördis was a different matter, though. Dark Elves looked down upon humans as a ‘lesser race’, but they bore murderous hatred towards Norscans specifically, and Yalene could not blame them. Norscan raiders were a scourge on the Sea of Claws and beyond. It was strange that one of their longships had been far from home so deep in winter, since the sea around Norsca froze during the cold season, making any passing utterly impossible. But when spring came and the ice melted, the Norscans were raiding, pillaging and burning again, as they had done for centuries on end. Other than being ruthless pirates, Norscans also worshipped the Ruinous Powers, and that made them utterly reviled. Even Dark Elves seemed to agree to this.   
  
It was worse than that for Yalene. It was something that Nordlanders loathed to talk about, but the truth was that centuries of colonization, pillaging and raping had produced the predictable side effect that the vast majority of Nordlanders had some Norscan blood flooding through their veins. During her travels, Yalene had also noticed a few cultural quirks that must have been imported from Norsca, like the singular way the Nordlanders embroidered their collars and seams, the penchant for bright-coloured clothing, or even some celebrations like Doomstag that had probably been appropriated from another culture. Even the general tall, fair-haired Nordlander appearance mirrored that of the stereotypical Norscan. So prevalent was the threat from Norscan raiders for her people that Yalene admittedly felt satisfaction towards the fate of Hjördis' crew, which she had been told had been almost completely slaughtered.   
  
All save for Hjördis. Even chained, this woman looked proud and defiant, her eyes glowing with disdain. She also had the nasty habit to glare at everybody and mutter under her breath, which Yalene did not fault her for. If she were in the Norscan’s shoes, she would glare a lot, too. In fact, the defiance shown by this woman and her regular resistance against her proverbial and physical chains made her heroic in Yalene’s eyes, despite her background. Hjördis had also used one of the three Norscan words to describe herself that Yalene happened to know: Skjaldmær – Shieldmaiden. It must have been shameful for her to admit defeat. Still, this woman was dangerous; even without knowing this word, the other women in the hold could feel it and avoided her. The Dark Elves saw the same in her as well, which was the reason why they had chained her. It was also the reason, or so Yalene suspected, why Ruvol hated her so much. She was strong, so he had to bring her down.   
  
In contrast, Lavinia, as much as she had cursed at their first meeting, was much more docile. She was still impulsive and hot-headed, though, but smart enough to know when to keep her head down. Getting her out of bed was the next step.   
  
„Lavinia, please get up. The sun is already high.“ Taking care to keep her sentences simple as not to stumble over missing vocabulary, Yalene now started good-naturedly teasing the Tilean by slowly pulling the sheets, careful to not startle her too much. She could hear Hjördis scoffing in the background, presumably because the tone used for this exchange was too gentle. Lavinia grumbled in response, but didn’t move. Yalene had meant to say more, as she was startled by the sight of Lavinia’s naked shape, her bottom having turned into seemingly being just one large, purple bruise.  
  
To her complete and utter surprise, Lavinia chuckled and managed to wriggle her poor, maltreated bottom. “Don’t look so shocked.” The look on her face was almost dreamy, and she looked thoroughly amused. “I’ve never thought that I’d see a squeamish shadow elf, but here you are.”  
  
“How can you laugh about this? What is he doing to you?” It was correct, Yalene was shocked by the sight, but Lavinia merely waved it aside, the satisfied gleam of rapture in her dark eyes.   
  
“It’s hard to explain. He does it in a way that keeps getting better. Once when you get used to the pain, things start to get hazy, and then … “ She sighed contentedly. “Bliss. Pure pleasure. Yes, it hurts a lot, but he caresses it away a second later and then starts again. It’s euphoria after some time. Of course, I don’t even want to think about sitting on a chair today, but it was totally worth it.” Yalene must have looked sceptical to her, since Lavinia’s expression grew more serious. “Don’t worry about me. I have fun.”  
  
There was an awkward pause, after which Lavinia dryly added, as if she had just the first sober thought after waking up after a night of drunken stupor. “It’s disgusting and I don’t know why I like this.”   
  
What to reply to a statement like that? Yalene still tried to wrap her head around the fact that apparently, Lavinia liked being whooped by the Druchii Captain, and given all that insanity that was going on on this ship and what people generally did in their bedroom, who was she to judge her for that? This wasn’t the same situation as with the Norscan. If Captain Blackwater did all this to her with her explicit blessing, then she couldn’t even judge him for this. So she just patted the Tilean’s head affectionately. “Nothing to be ashamed of. People do a lot worse in the name of pleasure. Your body is yours to use as you see fit and you two seem to enjoy yourselves. What’s the harm?”  
  
“Only that my body isn’t mine to use as I see fit.” Lavinia stated bitterly. She was … not wrong; it was just surprising that she admitted as such although she seemed to enjoy her captor’s bed manners, and also a rather sudden change in mood. There was nothing that Yalene could say in regards to that uncomfortable truth. so she just nodded affirmatively and after a pause, handed her a nightshirt so that the naked woman was at least able to cover herself, which she did.   
  
“I still want to slit his throat. Is that strange?”, she added in an alarmingly quiet and sombre tone. Announcing one’s own murderous intention towards a common master, especially since Yalene was a member of the enemy species from Lavinia’s point of view, seemed only strange on the surface. But impulses, desires and delights like these always went deeper and were magnified by solitude. Lavinia was a social creature, after all, being kept apart from her fellow humans by the language barrier and only being shown tenderness by the man who tormented her, and only to be able to communicate with a woman who wore the face of the enemy. This was a terrible situation to be in. While she was lucky in being treated well, like a hummingbird in a gilded cage too small to move, her vivacious spirit withered in captivity, and her mind was crumbling under the weight of guilt and isolation, making this a torturous experience for her.   
  
Yalene could not think of anything else but to try to comfort this woman. “No.”, she replied gently, yet firmly, continuing in the most gentle and soothing tone she could muster. “You do what you have to survive. He pleasures you, but he harms you as well. Conflicting thoughts. Conflicting treatment. But whatever he does, your mind is still your own. Treasure that.”  
  
There was a long pause in which the Tilean stared at her incredulously, her dark eyes transfixed on her interlocutor. When she broke eye contact, Yalene just knew … Lavinia didn’t believe a word she was saying, believed in some sort of deceit or verbal trap. How could she not? In her eyes, Yalene wasn’t human, but something else entirely, something that every instinct told her to distrust. For some reason, that felt as heartbreaking as Lavinia’s obvious suffering.   
  
That moment that could have been a chance for closeness dissipated as the Tilean woman crawled clumsily out of the bed and took a moment to stretch lazily, after which she sauntered to the window to take a look outside. Captain’s quarters on just about every ship that Yalene had ever encountered were at the stern above the waterline, so the windows showed the ocean behind them as well as the other ships in the flotilla sailing in loose formation. Raindrops pattered incessantly against the windows under darkened skies and black waves breaking against the ship’s hull. Yalene stood there together with Lavinia in companionable silence; the lack of rattling of Hjördis’ chains even told her that she had not only storm-secured the quarters, but joined in this moment of peace within the safety of the ship, albeit from a distance.   
  
This silence was broken by a sudden disturbance on deck, which made Yalene’s heart sink. Commands were shouted, and the sounds of heavy steps were heard on the wooden floors. “Battle. Very soon.”, Hjördis mentioned in her heavily-accented Reikspiel, smirking while she turned to Yalene. “Scared, weakling?”   
  
A bully in its natural habitat, how delightful. “The better part of valour is discretion. Unfortunately, pontificating poignantly before you strikes me as an act of cruelty.” Seeing that neither of the other women spoke Reikspiel to this extent, she was certain that the only person currently understanding her own words was herself. She kept her town polite, even cheerful, which seemed to confuse Lavinia and annoy Hjördis.   
  
“Hávær. Big words. You still bleed, Druchii.” The Norscan accent was so thick that even Yalene had trouble understanding the words and gathered their meaning more from the threatening tone and body language that struck Yalene as posturing, not a real threat.  
  
“Cosa ha detto?”, Lavinia interjected defensively, mildly concerned.   
  
“Hvað sagði hún?”, Hjördis asked brusquely, clearly annoyed.   
  
“Was hat sie gesagt?”, Yalene threw in exasperatedly to adequately keep what she assumed was a rhyme of the conversation. Before more languages were thrown into the room to make Yalene’s head spin, Captain Blackwater made certain that the mood turned in an instant. He stormed into his own cabin, making an obvious effort not to slam the door like he clearly wanted to. He stood there for a moment, just staring on the ground and so obviously seething that the women instinctively stopped in their tracks.   
  
When Blackwater looked up at the them, they could see his features soften a little. His skin still stretched tightly around his jawbone. He took three deep breaths before he addressed Yalene in a terse voice. “Send the other two down.”  
  
Yalene had no idea what was going on, but the situation was apparently severe enough that any questions would be ill-received right now. So she merely complied by whispering the translation to the other two, gesturing for good measure. Lavinia at least had the decency to appear concerned, while Hjördis did no such thing. That commotion was not enough to scare her … how absolutely embarrassing.Yalene thought that in her human form, she had never been frightened in as alarming a frequency as elf Yalene was. Furthermore, she was apprehensive of the captain in the light of their last meeting, and that she was still confined to his quarters and the hold told her everything she needed to know about his opinion on that matter.   
  
When she stepped closer to the captain, she saw that he was in the middle of getting his weapons and armour ready. After having them laid out on the table, he turned to her, his voice kept carefully calm, polite even.   
  
“Do you know about the rules of engagement at sea?”  
  
Yalene eyed him warily, keeping her body language deliberately muted and her demeanour reserved, while she spoke in a tone that she hoped conveyed the flawless politeness she was aiming for. “My apologies, but I am no fighter. I also know little about Druchii warfare.”  
  
He seemed pleased by that reply, taking it as an invitation for a more thorough explanation, as if he was teaching a child about a significant life lesson. “The first thing you have to know is that naval combat is slow. We harness the winds to manoeuvre into position and shoot at each other with our weapons. For humans, it’s often cannons. For elves, it’s ballistae. Whoever has the higher range and winds on his side controls the engagement, so every captain tries to get both on his side quickly. To have the advantage of the winds is called the weather gage.”   
  
Captain Blackwater’s body language was more lively than usual as he described this topic that he was clearly passionate about. While he was clearly annoyed by some occurrence on deck, he still took the time to explain the situation to her. “So two opposing vessels could take hours of manoeuvring before shots are actually fired, while the actual boarding was done comparatively quickly.   
That all means that I currently have plenty of time to get geared up. It is one of the many tasks of my slaves to help me with that. You’ve never worn armour, correct?”  
  
She shook her head. “No, but I do know how to fasten a cuirass of human make.”  
  
That seemed to genuinely surprise Ruvol, as he arched an eyebrow, but did not wait for any explanation, merely handing her the first piece of armour, which happened to be a coarse, sturdily woven tunic that went over his shirt like a gambeson, although the fabric itself was surprisingly thin. While he showed her how to help him into it, he continued with his explanations.   
  
“Regular corsairs don’t wear metal armour at sea or only wear partial armour. The alternative would be leather, and there’s only one thing worse at sea than metal armour, and that’s leather armour.” There was a vain smile on his face, his tone momentarily slightly suggestive. “But as you know, I am not a regular corsair. I am a captain, and my station calls for more elaborate armour, even though it might sink me. If I’m not smart enough to avoid being thrown overboard, or not strong enough to swim even with armour, that’s on me.” What an unforgiving attitude towards their leaders the Druchii had, and how easy they were to pose such a risk on them in the name of showing strength and daring. Following the instructions to help the captain into his blackened cuirass, she had to admit to herself that the design was more sophisticated than the human ones. It was strapped upon the body in about the same fashion, though. In the end, he handed her a heavy, green cloak that she had seen last during the sacking of Hochfels. It felt odd, rubbery and scaly at the same time, and also quite heavy. When she looked at the captain questioningly, he seemed to be back to his amused and easily entertained self.   
  
“This cloak is made of Sea Dragon hide.”, he exclaimed proudly. “It is as strong as dragon skin is supposed to be and so light that it floats on water. It’s perfect for corsairs.” Since dragon skin was known to be resistant to sword and hammer, it was indeed impressive that the Dark Elves had enough resources and not to mention Sea Dragons to equip their whole fleet with these cloaks. During the attack on Hochfels, the overwhelming majority of Druchii had worn a cloak like this; those who didn’t, so she had come to understand, had been scouts or regular soldiers only temporarily hiring on a corsair vessel. She also noticed that despite the treasure she must have held in her hands, that the cloak itself was not well-worked, rugged around the edges and only barely held together by two clasps. With guidance, she helped Ruvol into this cloak, a little bit annoyed at how unwieldy it was.   
  
“This is rare and useful material. Why isn’t it fashioned into more fitting armour instead of cloaks?”  
  
The Dark Elf chuckled. “Does this hide look cooperative to you? It has a mind of its own and doesn’t like to be cut more than necessary.” Fair enough. Since it was hard to damage, it was hard to form into a desired shape.   
  
The whole time she had assisted the captain, he had been a picture of adult behaviour of the best kind, merely showing her what she had to do and nodding affirmatively if she did well enough. But now, she noticed that he hesitated, eyeing the door as if a terrible monster was waiting outside. Even more so, she received the impression that he paused and hesitated because he wanted to be asked. It was easy to comply with this behaviour, so she did with as much tact as possible, feigning more concern than she felt right now.   
  
“We are not in any danger, aren’t we?”, she asked, a touch too melodramatic. That seemed to be the right dose for Ruvol Blackwater, since he smiled encouragingly and patted her cheek.   
  
“Don’t you worry, dove. I’ll protect you.” After Yalene pretended to be reassured ever so slightly, he seemed to weigh if he would say more. His features hardened ever so slightly, and for a moment, he was not able to look her straight in the eye. “In fact, this will be a bloodbath for the other side.”  
  
For a moment, Yalene was a little shocked. She hadn’t taken the captain for a man who shied away from needless violence. But here he was, appearing genuinely concerned as he stepped away from her and started pacing.  
  
Taking her silence as an invitation, he continued. “We spent the winter further south and were lucky in evading any patrols and organizing our supplies. Usually, we return home before the sea around Naggaroth freezes. This means that raiding season has not even begun and I am already in the race.”  
  
“Fortune seemed to smile upon you.” Yalene commented cautiously while the Druchii kept pacing.   
  
“Yes. In fact, the holds of this flotilla are filled to the brim. We can’t possibly take anything more than a little bit of water and food. But we’ve been so successful that I meant to dock at an Ark in two days to get some much-needed repairs and then sail to Araby. If I managed that, I would cultivate my contacts with the Arabyan traders and wouldn’t have to worry about Ulthuan patrols. This raiding season would be much easier.” This was the moment he stood still, looking straight at her, frustration gleaming in his eyes. “And now, there are three vessels flying Bretonnian colours in our grasp. One is clearly a trading vessel, the other seems to be escorting her. The third …” He rubbed his neck. “ … is a sloop, a little different from the others. But she is in bad shape and even though the winds are in her favour, she is still not under full sail. That tells me that she is flat out of materials, like timber and ropes. I just know it.”   
  
“So you have easy prey, but no way to profit from it. You are also on your way to what I presume is a safe port. Why don’t you let your quarrel escape?” She assumed that an Ark was meant to be a safe harbour or port, or something of that kind. The syllables used indicated as much, but in truth, she had no idea what he was talking about, only that he considered it safe.   
  
The Druchii captain clenched his teeth. “Usually, I would. But one of my officers has been undermining me for months now. He gave the command to beat to quarters and argued for ‘target practice’. Disrespectful asshole.” He started rubbing his temple, a rather strange looking gesture from Yalene’s point of few. “This will be wholesale slaughter and a terrible waste of possible resources when we attack. Plus, the escort ship looks well-armed. As much as I dislike cannons, they will do some damage to the ships. We could repair it at the Ark, but that will cost me more time. If I call off the attack, I will look weak. If I lose time, I will look incompetent.”   
  
So it was inevitable that these Bretonnian sailors and traders would be attacked by the superior Druchii flotilla, and since there was no more room for plunder, there was to be senseless slaughter. If given the choice between being slain or being sold to Arabyans as slaves and having a fighting chance, Yalene would choose the latter. She was careful, left a thoughtful pause before she phrased her question in a more timid tone than she was used to.   
  
“Why not take the vessels as prizes? This would give you more storage.”  
  
There was an audible snort before he started huffing. “That is simply _not done_. No true Druchii would lower themselves to work on a human vessel.” That might have been the case, but she had seen greed glimmering in his eyes for a split-second.   
  
“I am so sorry, I just thought … well, since this Ark is so close. The crew will respect you more for bloodshed than for more profit, yes?”  
  
She saw the proud Druchii captain cursing under his breath, then rushing to his weapons and fastening them on his belt, grumbling all along. “We can tow them. It’s just two days … it’ll work.” Pausing, he looked at her, his face gradually brightening. “I could put Viroges, my dearest, rebellious officer. in command of a prize vessel. That would be shameful for him. I want to do that. I will do that! Great, now I have a plan. Get to safety, dove. I’ll be back soon!”. Before Yalene knew it, he planted a quick kiss on her brow, turning so dramatically that even the heavy lizard skin flew, scooped up his helmet and marched out of the door. He did this with so much style and panache that Yalene had to close the door behind him, and then returned to the hold to huddle up with the other women and weather the slaughter of innocent Bretonnians.   
  
Neither her books, nor Hendrik or Ruvol had been lying when they had stated that naval combat, even in the storm, was a long, drawn-out affair. A lot of stitching, sewing, knitting and gossiping was done before they could hear the twanging of Druchii ballistae and cannonfire in the distance across the howling of the wind. From the movements on the ship, Yalene could feel that they were sailing around the edge of the storm and meeting only moderate winds, but even then, the ship only erupted twice when the hull was hit by a cannonball, but it seemed to Yalene that only one battery saw any use. Not long thereafter, shouts and cheering erupted and turned into battlecries. As far as she could tell from the soundscape, the Bretonnians were indeed overrun quickly, as apparently, none of them managed to board the Druchii vessel they were on. The sounds of battle, clashing of swords, shouts of men and a few women fighting and dying faded more and more, until a victory cheer from the Dark Elves told Yalene that the Bretonnians had either struck the colours or had been so completely overwhelmed that any resistance had died down. The pursuit and demise of three ships had taken four hours, and the aftermath of the battle did take longer. It had been tense hours for Yalene, in which she had told herself over and over that her words had prevented a much worse bloodbath, that the victory of the elves had been decided by their higher numbers, faster ships and difference in weaponry.   
  
For once, Yalene was thankful that she was currently not allowed to go on deck. It had been morning when she had tried to rise Lavinia and the Bretonnians had been sighted. Now, over the course of the day, her fellow slaves hurried into the kitchen or went to tend to Captain Blackwater and his wounds he hopefully had received. What she heard from the other women was that he had of course survived and that his losses had been miniscule, only confirming what Blackwater had already told her – the Bretonnians had been outmatched, and two of the three ships had indeed been taken as prizes and were now being towed.   
  
The situation calmed down enough that she could take a break from her tireless sewing and have a humble dinner while listening to the sounds above and beyond the wall that parted her from the rest of the hold. It sounded like drunken celebration. And all she had done in the meantime was making certain that she had a second dress to work with, with Mireille and Agnés anxiously working on a third one, which Yalene thought was too much effort. She tried to have pity for the Bretonnians, but she felt so numb to pain. Since she wasn’t forced to watch them, it was easy to feel numb.   
  
Even the steady chatter by Agnés and Katharina, the dry, sarcastic remarks by Lavinia and Cevirin and the constant glares from Hjördis that would normally amuse and entertain her now felt like an intrusion. So feigning to be indisposed, she retreated to the tiny bathroom in the captain’s cabin to get at least a little privacy.   
  
She hadn’t noticed that the sky had gone so dark again, that night had fallen in the meantime. How fast time could run. Preparing herself to nurture her wounded conscience with a philosophical debate with the best opponent she could currently think of, namely herself, she had already started to ponder, when she heard the door in the captain’s cabin opening. Startled and acting completely on instinct, she had crouched down behind the thick curtain that obscured the bathroom from the cabin. For a moment, the blood rushing through her ears seemed so loud, but she remained perfectly still and was apparently not noticed by the three Druchii now gathering in the cabin around the table. From her position, she could peer into the room from the smallest opening in the curtain. Even with the lighting not in her favour, she immediately recognized the tall frame of Captain Blackwater, as well as the withered and frail form of Nisha, the sorceress who had hexed her secret out of her. The third one, Yalene identified as the first mate Iruvan, a man who frequented the captain’s quarters, but whom she had only seen in passing.   
  
They were whispering among each other, with Nisha gesticulating wildly. “I could do so much more with a prize like this. Imagine the strides we could do!”  
  
Ruvol Blackwater regarded her coolly, his voice stern. “I think not.”  
  
The scarred sorceress scoffed at this reply. “Why not? She is of no use to you and will only serve to bore you once the shine wears off. But if I could recreate the ritual, do you know what this would mean?” Her voice was breaking as she ran her fingers across her face, but her words dripped with acid. “That hag Morathi is guarding the secret to immortality for her and her precious son only. She will never share it with us, her loyal followers. But if we could just use able bodies … I could be whole again. The strongest of us would not have to fear death. We could become immortal!”  
  
“That's how magic works, Nisha? Or is that how you wish it worked?” The demeanour and voice of Ruvol Blackwater was now sympathetic, but still firm and unyielding. “What you dream about can’t be done. You heard the human; the ritual failed, and the sorceress must have studied this for a longer time than you do. Besides, you have no way of experimenting safely on this ship.”   
  
“I was hoping that you would release me from your service and allow me to go home to conduct my experiments …” It was almost pitiful how this undoubtedly powerful crone now started pleading, but Blackwater cut her off quickly.   
  
“Last time I checked, I have bought your services for the next two years. I don’t fancy raiding without a trustworthy and competent sorceress on my side, especially if she wants to run off on some fool’s errand.”  
  
“Do not insult my art, boy.” Her rebuke was so sharp and intense that even the faintest part of her faux-friendly persona crumbled to dust in an instant. It allowed Yalene to be able to catch a glimpse of the cruel and dangerous woman this crone was able to be. The sorceress’ whole demeanour changed, as if a shadow was cast over her features, her voice cutting as a knife. “Pray that nobody tells the Hag Queen about your little secret.”  
  
This time, it was the first mate who responded in the same, sharp tone while the captain glared at her. “Pray that nobody does. The Hag Queen demands complete loyalty, after all. It would be a shame if anybody told her about your plans and delusions of immortality.”  
  
That argument seemed to have the desired effect, as it successfully silenced the sorceress, whose eyes narrowed as she now regarded the first mate like an insect that had managed to sting her.   
  
“The word of a successful corsair captain carries more weight than yours, sorceress. You know that.” It was Ruvol who feigned sympathy for her, and feigned it badly. The sorceress reacted with cold disdain as she turned around and marched to the door, only to turn around at the last second to have the last word.   
  
“I hope for your sake that you remain successful, _Captain_.” With these chilling words, she departed, slamming the door for good measure. Yalene’s head was spinning … she had wondered if somebody would take advantage of her state, but she didn’t know that it would be so fast and would cause so many problems. She had heard the name Morathi, had read a little about her, but that had always been the narrative of the High Elves she knew. As far as the Asur were concerned, Morathi was the mother of all Druchii, the architect of their society, her feminine wiles and exquisite, seductive beauty only matched by her cruelty and greed. She and her son were the rules of the Dark Elves, with Morathi being believed to have poisoned their wayward cousins with her hate and her ambition. So even though the truth was almost certainly more complex, Yalene could see that this exchange was not only tense, but invoking the name of a tyrant Queen did drive a wedge between a formerly loyal sorceress and her commander. Since she was firmly on the side that guaranteed her survival, this was a disheartening and frightening situation.   
  
While she tried to calm her racing heart, she saw that the two remaining elves checked the door to make certain that they were undisturbed, before quietly talking among themselves.   
  
“That might become a problem.”, the first mate remarked dryly.   
  
“Is there any way it won’t be?”, Ruvol Blackwater retorted before slightly shaking his head. “That woman is too clever by half. I don’t trust her, so she doesn’t get her way in this case.”  
  
“As you wish. We also need to talk about Viroges …”, the first mate probed, which only served to make Ruvol Blackwater press his forehead against the table and groaned. Iruvan seemed awfully unfazed and continued in the same, businesslike manner. “Very well. Show me your unicorn and then we can talk about our enterprising officer.”  
  
Harrijassesne! How was she to get out of this one? If they called her up from the hold - where she was supposed to be - , it would quickly become apparent that she had eavesdropped. Listening in on a conversation that she decidedly should not have heard could only be detrimental to her health, so she decided to be offended by all of this later and act first. With a silent prayer to Ranald for luck, the Azure Man for guidance and Shallya just in case everything went absolutely wrong, she looked from her position. What little she could see, she determined that the two elves were currently facing the window, having turned their backs to her position. The way to the door to the hold was clear, as she had to merely step through the curtain to arrive at the door. So she only needed a distraction to make this one, important step without being seen.   
  
Following her first instinct, she went for the risky route, silently weaving the strands of magic and focused on the window. She imagined that little game she had played with her father when she was young, when he taught her how to use the winds to make people drop things. Having a dab of butter was always helpful in such an endeavour, but alas, she had nothing of this sort. This time, however, it was the window that was to be buttered.  
  
It worked like a charm. The windows flew open, bringing with them strong winds, making the paper maps fly and distracting both elves enough so that she could slip through the curtain and dart to the door, where she simply laid her hand on the handle. That tiny display of magic without the safety of an arcane language and a more ritualistic approach came at a cost, for she could feel cold and unnatural winds around the captain’s cabin, something that was hidden through the winds of the storm, but probably felt like a bad omen for the two elves, who had just closed the window as the winds of chaos receded. Ruvol and Iruvan spotted her almost immediately, while she had frozen in her movements, fumbling for words.   
  
“I-I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude …”  
  
The two elves exchanged slightly baffled looks, then beckoned her to come closer, to which she complied. “We were about to send for you anyway. I have a task for you in a minute. Stay there.” He managed to even wink. While Yalene silently complied as to make as little fuss as possible, she was finally able to take a closer look at the first mate and listen to the conversation.   
  
Iruvan himself was tall, slender as a bow, with a thin face that barely showed any emotion at all. His skin was pale with a greyish hue, only marred by a small, faded scar at his neck, but otherwise, he seemed too stoic to be wounded in battle. Unlike Ruvol, who favoured tying his hair back in a ponytail when on deck, he wore his hair loose aside from two small braids to keep the strands of hair out of his face.   
  
“About Viroges …” He began again, and once more, the good captain groaned. That display of displeasure was quite disappointing. Throughout the conversation with the sorceress and now with his second-in-command, Captain Blackwater had been surprisingly businesslike and level-headed, carrying himself with an air of authority and the slight detachment that came with that kind of sensible leadership. But apparently, hers and the first mate’s presence were non-threatening enough to relax and let his guard down, as he listened to Iruvan. “Your decision to sail for Araby is a sound one, especially if the repairs don’t take too much time. Viroges will try to undermine this decision, though.”  
  
“I certainly hope so.” Ruvol smiled a little too smugly. “Time to lure him out. He’s questioned me almost openly. Now I turned his little scheme into victory, he is miserable on this human boat and lost a lot of credibility when he badmouthed the ‘don’t fuck children’-rule.”  
  
Iruvan shook his head in apparent incomprehension. “He did that on principle, not because he wants to get his hands on kids. Now he wages his whisper campaign to undermine you. It will only get worse, especially since he’s under the illusion that this would net him prestige and a promotion.”  
  
“That’s why I’m escalating now. I’d rather deal with this sooner than let it fester. He’s still only rumour mongering and being a general pain in the ass, isn’t he?” When Iruvan nodded, he enquired. “Well, what kind of rumours is he spreading?”  
  
“The usual, mostly harping on your ‘weakness’.” The first mate seemed almost bored. “He’s especially irked that you don’t sacrifice more slaves to Mathlann and Khaine. He also mentions that you are young and brash.” For a moment, there was a flicker of an amused smile on Iruvan’s face. “He is also likening you to an animal in heat because of your treatment of your slaves.”  
  
“You can always sacrifice more to the gods, but I have a crew to pay and ships to repair. He knows that. As for my women: he can only say that because Viroges is a self-absorbed rapist brute who deludes himself thinking he acts with _finesse_. Pshaw! If he were captain, he would have a hold full of beautiful women as well.” Yalene had to contain an amused smile as she heard that statement out of this particular mouth, but managed to remain unmoving, stone-faced and listening attentively as Ruvol rubbed his temple with two fingers. “Seriously, I’ll never understand anybody who just throws themselves on a cold, tense woman’s body.”, he huffed. “True art lies in seduction, not only in pleasure, but in all things, to find out what the other wants, and then give it to them. For example, Viroges is now looking for a reason to rebel. Let’s give it to him. Let’s announce a few common sense rules – he will protest, because he currently protests everything, and then watch him self-destruct before the crew he tries to sway.”  
  
Iruvan tipped his chin pensively. “Yes, that could work. But we need to be clever about this and approach those rules patiently. His rage is not going to fade anytime soon, thanks to you, nor is his ambition. We have time to set it up.” There was a hint of teasing now in his voice, almost too subtle under his monotone speech patterns to notice. “Let’s see if he can be ‘seduced’ towards ruin.”  
  
“You still think it’s funny?”   
  
“Very.” Iruvan noted with amusement so dry, it had collected dust for centuries. He then turned towards Yalene. “What do you think of Captain Blackwater’s skill in seduction?”  
  
“The art of ferreting out another person’s motives, desires and intentions is known to me as ‘empathy’ and ‘diplomacy’.” Yalene tried to answer in as pleasant a tone to the obvious trick question as she could muster without shifting uncomfortably, now raising her gaze to meet the other man’s. “This only proves how little I know about this matter, and thus I am not qualified to cast any judgement.”   
  
For an obviously stoic person, Iruvan answered in good humour, arching an eyebrow. “Is that so? I find that hard to believe. You must have some knowledge about seduction in general.”  
  
Yalene couldn’t decide if the first mate was currently trying to test her personality by throwing a barb at her, or if he was making fun of his superior officer right under his nose. Since Ruvol was currently content listening to their conversation with an attentive expression on his face, Yalene decided to tread with care and only give the slightest hint of ammunition. So she played along with the first mate’s good humour in the same, pleasant tone, her voice as warm and soft as melted butter. “I only have second-hand knowledge. Seduction speaks to desires only, so it takes empathy to recognise them in oneself and others.”  
  
Iruvan nodded in obvious agreement, so that Yalene was now absolutely certain that he was currently playing a little good-natured game with Ruvol, with her being a willing participant. “Well said. Empathy seems to be the most important quality to know what speaks to heart, mind and soul of a person. But there are a few qualities that seem to be attractive to a great many people. A tall, dark and handsome man appears to be generally popular.” It might have been a trick of the light, but there was the barest flicker of an implied wink, the hint of an expression on the first mate’s face without the eyelids moving.   
  
“I concur.” Yalene replied. “Especially if said tall, dark and handsome man carries some obvious emotional scars … why, it is the most delicious prey for very young women and her desire to soothe those scars. To heal a broken person is the epitome of romance for childish dreams.”  
  
There was a certain tone in his voice, barely perceivable, that made Yalene believe that Iruvan tried to tell her something important in this otherwise pleasant exchange. He stroked his chin while eying her, a flicker of a certain intensity creeping into his demeanour. “Youth is a time for romance and childish dreams. Some feed their whole lives with the passions of past days, whether they eventually grow up or not. Be careful not to mock those desires.” The shift back to the more playful part of the conversation was again, barely perceptible, but didn’t avoid Yalene’s notice. Iruvan nodded empathetically, turning to the mildly confused Ruvol. “What an interesting young thing you have there. I like that. You wouldn’t let me purchase Mireille. Can I buy her instead?”  
  
“Absolutely not!” Ruvol laughed. “I don’t sell my women to smartasses. Now get yourself on deck.”  
  
“Aye, Captain.” Iruvan replied a touch too courteously, and there was even a hint of a smile on his face. “Take my advice though and remember that hands tell a lot about a person. Good evening.” With these words, he took his leave. As soon as he had closed the door behind him and went back onto the rainy deck, Ruvol Blackwater turned to Yalene, clicking his tongue amusedly for a moment, but otherwise let the matter of their small conversation drop.   
  
“Show me your hands.” He demanded in a surprisingly gentle tone, considering the kind of bitter note she had seen him the last time a few days ago. Knowing better than to argue that kind of clear instruction, she raised her hands slightly, palms down and fingers slightly spread as if for inspection. And inspected they were, for the elven man stepped close to her, taking her hands into his and studying them. His skin was of a slightly darker hue and felt a little rough and calloused as he compared both of their hands, his being a little larger.   
  
“I can see what Iruvan meant.”, he finally stated, and Yalene could see it as well. Her own hands were all but pristine, aside from the traces of what work she had done the past few days. The skin was completely smooth, untouched by any hard work. As a librarian in her former body, Yalene had always possessed a little rough patch at one joint of her right middle finger, where the quill usually rested. This was now noticeably missing, and she had missed that patch when she had first picked up a quill as a Druchii. Even light work like sewing or writing was felt keenly on her fingers, and this was by no means normal in her opinion. Nobody could have hands that smooth and untouched, but here they were.   
  
Ruvol noticed this as well after having inspected her palms, then stroking over her fingers. “Soft through and through.” He was not wrong. Druchii were supposed to be a hard people, and by their standards, she was indeed a weakling, as Hjördis had called her. Yalene couldn’t deny that, because she now noticed with a sinking feeling dark stains upon his sleeves … blood. There was no doubt about it. The realization made her stare upon those sleeves, feeling cold and as no muscle would currently obey her commands.   
  
Indeed, she was barely able to look at him, her eyes just transfixed on their hands, only to feel relief wash over her when her hands were released and the Dark Elf took a step back to give her space. “It’s still a bit much, hm?”  
  
Yes, it was a bit much, because the fact that the battle that he had waged today and the lives that must have been lost, what he was doing for a living, that she almost thought this normal was just now sinking in as she had seen the traces of blood, and it terrified her. It took effort to lift her head and look at the captain, who in turn observed her apprehensively. After a pause that seemed far too long, he lifted his chin, his voice firm, but not unkind.   
  
“That task I have for you … we will talk about it tomorrow. You may retreat now.” Despite the slightly condescending sendoff, Yalene found herself to be immensely thankful to get away, down below to safety where Druchii were at least mostly out of sight for her.   
  



	10. Lessons

The next day came, and it turned out to be more interesting than Yalene had thought. Currently, she and her sisters-in-chains were tasked to prepare a rather unusual, elaborate dinner for the captain in his quarters. That in itself was a little unusual, as he habitually dined in the officer’s mess, and if he had his dinner in his cabin, he was often joined by Iruvan. This time, however, he had asked for an elaborate dinner served in several courses and smaller portions to be all laid out at his table at once, including several plates, cups and cutlery.  
  
Yalene still hadn’t left the confinements of the hold and the captain’s quarters, but she was involved in lighting lanterns and creating a comfortable atmosphere for what was presumably meant to be a fancy dinner for one. She was assisted by Katharina, who transported the food out of the kitchen, and Lavinia, who had volunteered. Usually, Yalene avoided Katharina as a fellow Imperial for fear that they could slip into mannerisms and quirks that were exclusive to the Empire.  
She needn’t have bothered. While Katharina was an unfailingly friendly, jolly woman, she was not observant. Any hint of humanity within Yalene had and would have gone right over her head. Katharina also happened to be a hard-working and helpful woman, which made her help in arranging this dinner immeasurable. Normally, the trio would round that dinner table off now to arrange the food plates in a more appetizing and pleasing manner, but instead, they were glued to the window, mouths agape.  
  
Lavinia’s was clearly in shock and awe, and it took her a while before she found her speech again. “We are _inside a giant ship_?”  
  
Without missing a beat, Yalene translated that question to Katharina, who was equally stunned by the sight. One couldn’t blame them. A Black Ark of the Druchii was a gargantuan monstrosity of a ship, dwarfing even the most advanced swimming fortresses that the Bretonnians were prone to build. The crew numbered in the thousands, and it was capable of opening parts of the outside hull that led to grotto-like ports. The outside hull was then closed, leaving those ships in the bowels of the Black Ark, illuminated by violet witchlight and with the knowledge that somewhere within the depths of this massive swimming structure, there were sea monsters close. This was a living ship, with seawater being its lifeblood, magic its heartbeat, and cruelty its soul. It was also security, a safe haven in which the little Druchii flotilla could do their much-needed repairs.  
  
“And I thought that some galleys were large. I had no idea.” Lavinia noted, still in unrestrained awe. “But this … how do these things even float?”  
  
“With magic.” Yalene simply answered evenly.  
  
“Unbelievable. To think that you people have several of these things … how come you haven’t conquered the world yet? It would take a fleet to take such a thing down with rapid cannon fire even in this … port-thing.” Lavinia shook her head. “Thousands of crew, you say? How do you even feed a crew that large? How do you navigate this?”  
  
These were all questions that Yalene might have been able to answer if she had been a Druchii scholar, but alas, she was not. She was just as astounded as Lavinia, looking at the interior and eerie witchlight, the sheer hint of the size of this ship with the same kind of wonder one would a dragon with beautiful glittering scales burning down a city and tearing its inhabitants apart. It was bizarre, beautiful, magnificent and terrible at the same time to behold.  
  
“I wish I knew the answer … “ Yalene didn’t finish the sentence, as she was determined to at least show more restraint and poise than the two other women. So she straightened her shoulders, and started to translate the gist of the conversation into Druhir for Katharina. But the Imperial woman just waved her hand in a soothing manner.  
  
“It’s all good.”, she merely said, and somehow, Yalene was thankful for this. Like Agnés, it was hard not to like Katharina. One could sense that her amiable demeanour was genuine, as was her obvious puppy-eyed love and unquestioning devotion for her master. It was not surprising that he favoured her; Katharina possessed a rubenesque figure, bright, blue eyes and pretty, gentle features. But her most striking physical quality was her intensely curled, long hair coloured in the brightest ginger that Yalene had ever seen in her life. Her skin was so pale and freckled, which only accentuated her natural beauty. She was also pleasantly accepting towards the language barriers in the hold and never demanded a translation or was even offended by garbled word salads that sometimes happened with so many languages among a group. In fact, Katharina never felt offended, and had even expressed that she did not feel left out when short conversations in other languages were held with her present. Still, her reassurances didn’t keep Yalene from trying.  
  
“I’ve heard about this part of the sea. It is a strange one.” Lavinia noted in an almost dreamy tone. “The sailors whisper to each other that there is always fog around here, and whenever you enter it, there is not telling if you ever get out … and if you do, where.”  
  
Yalene nodded, as she had heard about the same about this region and was eager to share her tales and rumors. “There are also stories about ghost ships and faraway voices and cries in the air. I wonder if these stories are because the Dark Elves travel these waters, or if they tell themselves the same horror stories.” After a small, pensive pause, she continued. “In ancient times, the world was said to be a lush jungle, with bizarre gigantic birds and dragons roaming the sky freely. I have heard that in this region, there used to be an underwater kingdom under these waves. The ocean has receded, the ruins of the once-proud kingdom have crumbled and the spirits of the merfolk are still roaming these waters, searching for their homes.” In part, she had heard those stories. But in another part, she had had a brief glimpse in a dream of a strange, birdlike creature that seemed from another world flying across skies in the smoldering heat of a jungle, and of abandoned palaces underwater. Perhaps her dreams were now more vivid, with her mind inventing the strangest things.  
  
Lavinia turned around, an eyebrow arched sceptically. “I have never thought you would be somebody to spin that much yarn.”  
  
Or she was just spinning yarn. That was a possibility as well.  
  
Glancing at her interlocutor, Lavinia asked. “Do you know where we will sail next?” Again, there was this determination in the other woman’s eyes that made Yalene believe that she would escape at the first, best opportunity. There was fight yet left in Lavinia, and she was far more willing to take a risky opportunity than Yalene was … whatever the woman had planned, it was best and most courteous not to stand in her way and supply her with all the information she needed.  
  
“He plans to sell the captured people to a trader in Araby.”  
  
She could see Lavinia blink, and there was a flicker of pain on her face before her features hardened. “Among humans we are at least humane. They’ll have a fighting chance.”  
  
What a sweet and hopeful girl she could be if she wanted to. Yalene sighed, because she desperately wanted to believe that it was so. But alas, if she knew one thing for certain after all this time, then it was about the capacity of humans to do harm to each other. Dark Elves might claim the crown of cruelty for themselves, but there was competition, no doubt. But aside from the somewhat comforting fact that their distant neighbours and former crew-mates would not stay Druchii slaves, but be at least among humans, Lavinia knew now about the plans to sail south. Where she went from there was up to her, and Yalene would not stand in her way.  
  
They were interrupted by Cevirin, the only other Druchii among Captain Blackwater’s slaves, as she entered the cabin, balancing the last tray with soup, the last course, on her hands and throwing an absolutely poisonous glance towards the two human women. They fittingly turned out to be terribly unimpressed. That dinner was served now meant that the captain would certainly arrive soon, so that was their cue to leave. Yalene exchanged glances with Katharina and Lavinia and determined to do just that, as the Druchii placed the food on the table. But just in that moment as Katharina passed her, Cevirin suddenly grabbed her by her hair and forcibly slammed her face into the bowl of soup, leaving the poor girl spurting into its contents.  
  
_‘What in the blazes?’ _Yalene was too shocked to say anything, especially since the other Druchii looked almost casual in her attack, but after the obligatory second of standing in stunned disbelief, Yalene rushed towards Cevirin and tried to pry her from the human woman. Lavinia had eschewed that troublesome moment of shock and had already tried to jump on the back of the Druchii. Much to the surprise for both of them, the other elf let herself be pulled away with surprising ease, a self-satisfied smirk on her face while Yalene raised her voice for the first time in a very long time. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you?!?”  
  
When she glanced to the side, she could see Katharina wiping her face, shaken but no worse for wear, but for some reason, Cevirin wore a smug smile on her face. A moment later, Yalene could see why, when she heard a low chuckle behind her at the door. Ruvol Blackwater had apparently not witnessed the scene, and the picture that he was now treated to had to be somewhat amusing at least to him, with four of his slaves in his room and obviously in an altercation, one of them having her face smeared with part of his dinner, and two others laying their hands on another. Yalene distinctly felt like she was among little children playing childish pranks.  
  
Cevirin was the first to find it in herself to speak, and promptly tried to control the narrative. “Look what she did ...”, she started, pointing at the other two women but no one in particular, but apparently, even Ruvol Blackwater, drama queen extraordinaire, didn’t have enough patience for this kind of nonsense.  
  
“Seriously?” That question alone was enough to silence the Druchii woman, who looked more indignant than anything else. “Yalene, tell Lavinia and Katharina to go down below to clean themselves up. You and Cevirin stay here.”  
  
After having been told as much, Lavinia gladly complied, hurrying away from this ridiculous scene, leaving the three elves to their devices. The door had closed behind her when Ruvol sat himself down and didn’t lose any time to pull Yalene onto his lap, wrapping one hand around her waist and keeping her in place before she could even so much as voice either surprise or protest.  
  
He looked her deep into the eyes, his voice thick with amusement. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”  
  
No matter how playful he sounded, given the fact that just before all childishness broke loose, she had entertained the idea of an escape plan, that question was enough to make her freeze in her motions, even though it was highly unlikely that he had read her thoughts on this matter. She also noticed that he occasionally glanced over her shoulder, exchanging glances with Cevirin, which told Yalene that she was merely an actor in the theatrics made for the other woman.  
  
Ruvol continued with the same, easy smile as he let his free hand roam over her waist. His jovial tone was tinged with genuine concern. “You’ve lost weight.” To emphasise his point, he gave her waist a gentle squeeze, just along the ribs that were admittedly the first to show. It was probably also true, since Yalene didn’t have much of an appetite ever since her ‘death’, and it even lessened now that she had to drink that horrible tea. Still, she had no idea how this was Ruvol’s business or how this had any connection with Cevirin’s misbehaviour. She had just shoved another woman’s head into a bowl of food, for Shallya’s sake. What kind of insanity was this to just ignore that and ramble about a little weight lost? The captain was not deterred, though, his tone now carrying a sugary sweet quality that was definitely a touch too obvious, even for the theatrics he had in mind.  
  
He stretched a little to pull one of the plates of his dinner close, which happened to carry some kind of dessert that she didn’t know. It had only been served today, so she thought that this was probably a special occasion. This dessert, more like little pastries, looked small, just little morsels, and seemed to be some fudge-like sweetness dripping with honey. Whatever it was, if it was able to be coated in this much honey, there was no possibility for it to taste foul. Without further ado, he took one of those little honey-pastries and offered her one by holding it directly to her lips.  
  
It appeared that Cevirin’s reprimand consisted in her being forced to watch a fellow slave being hand-fed sweet treats, which was nothing short of infantilizing in Yalene’s opinion. Furthermore, Ruvol made sure to sexually charge even that moment with tiny, little gestures – keeping his face so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his body, an adoring smile on his face, a caress at her waist, not to mention that he let his fingers linger on her lips for just a moment too long and blithely and suggestively licked the honey from his own fingers, his eyes never leaving hers.  
  
Yalene would have been impressed if it were not so petty. Even more so, she had to admit that the treat she had been fed so charmingly caused the tasteful equivalent of a massive honeyed explosion in her mouth. This was honey-coated fudge, as she now found out; she could practically feel the sweetness seep onto her tongue and make itself at home there for the foreseeable future while her stomach reported that maximum level of food capacity was reached due to sweetness overload. The texture was as soft as the touch of the man feeding her, as he traced her lips with his thumb with tender care. It was not the first time that he hand-fed her, and he apparently developed a taste for this.  
  
“There’s a good girl.” He cooed into Yalene’s face, which made her fear that she had possibly been the woman closest for him to grab and theatrically dote on to ‘punish’ his insubordinate servant “You know, we two need to talk about your assignments anyway, so you’ll stay here. I had also planned on going on an errand tomorrow with our dear, dear Cevirin. Since she can’t behave, I am forced to take you with me instead.” He looked at the other elf, as did Yalene now, turning her head only to see Cevirin _seethe, _trembling in wordless, powerless rage. She knew that look. That was not a woman scorned she saw there, that was a woman discarded and being tormented, granted after she had done some tormenting herself. In that one look, the dynamic between them both was clear, especially given all what she had heard about those two so far. Ruvol and Cevirin were former lovers, or at least something akin to that. The smug look on Ruvol’s face confirmed that impression. It was not that he had simply used her for sexual gratification, there had been some kind of bond that was now severed, leaving only mutual loathing behind.  
  
What a messed up situation. When Yalene realized this, she shifted uncomfortably while Ruvol addressed Cevirin again. “Tell Mireille that the two of us need to be prepared tomorrow. Yalene will need something nice to wear and we will also need to scrub any trace of saltwater off. No scented soap. Lady Sevirr is incredibly sensitive to smells after all.” He dismissively waved his hand. “Oh, and do clean up your mess. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next half an hour. You can clean up the table afterwards.”  
  
There was barely any time to process what had just been said, or that it was decided that she would be taken along on a trip through the Black Ark. A part of her was strangely giddy about the prospect of seeing more of this Black Ark, another was completely terrified, and another part altogether was mortified about the scene she had just witnessed. Yalene decided to take note of that last part first, addressing the smug-looking captain after Cevirin had wiped the table, taken the bowl and slammed the door behind her.  
  
“Was that really necessary?” She tried to sound as neutral and reasonable as possible, to which Ruvol arched an eyebrow.  
  
“It absolutely was. Cevirin pulls crap like this all the time.”  
  
Now Yalene raised both of her eyebrows. “So only the fiercest gestures of pettiness and humiliation will prevent her from doing something like this again?”  
  
Ruvol looked taken aback. “No, but it surely felt good, didn’t it?”  
  
“Not for me.”  
  
He seemed to be genuinely surprised. “Well, it was for me, end of the story.” To make certain that this was indeed the end of the story, he reached out for one of those delightful fudges and attempted to feed it to her again. Feeling that she had used up her minutely allowance of defiance, she obediently opened her mouth to receive it again. This time, the gesture of feeding was more friendly and less erotically charged, which was a welcome change of pace. But oh, dear Gods, those fudges went into her stomach like large bricks, which was quite a feat, given that they almost melted on her tongue. When Ruvol attempted to feed her another, she simply had to decline.  
  
“You only had one.” He furrowed his brow. “You really lost weight. That’s not healthy.”  
  
In response, Yalene could only shift uncomfortably on his lap, but instead of releasing her, he cleaned his fingers and gently guided her chin so that she was forced to look at him face to face. The expression on his face was now serious, even a little pensive and concerned. “I’ve been thinking. It seems that there’s something you don’t understand about the relationship between master and slave. You are mine, but I also have an obligation to take care of what’s mine. That means that I need to keep you clothed, fed, healthy, and above all, safe.”  
  
Yalene didn’t respond and kept her facial expression carefully neutral and attentive._ ‘If I had wanted someone to take care of me, I would have married a long time ago.’_, she kept thinking, but wisely kept her mouth shut as the elf continued.  
  
“Something’s wrong with you, dove. When I saw you the first evening, there was so much life in your eyes. Now, I see only fog. Why is that?”  
  
Indeed, it was a mystery for the ages.  
  
The elf shook his head. “Look, I get it. You are angry. I would be as well in your shoes.” That was the first moment that Yalene allowed herself to look as puzzled as she felt, because that was a new angle that she hadn’t seen coming. “What happened to you is bizarre … I don’t know what I would have done if I found myself in a human body all of a sudden. The fur in their faces alone would drive me crazy.” There was a bitter smile on his face, and to be fair, the term was a little bit amusing. “With so little life left, so vulnerable to disease and pain, thrown into a completely different culture, being seen as something I’m simply not … I can’t imagine. And then there’s suddenly this handsome stranger that whisks me away, calls me a slave and sends me down the stairs stark naked. Yes, that would piss me off, no matter how good the sex was. My resistance would be more violent than yours, though.” Again, he looked her in the eyes, dead serious. “I got carried away that night.”  
  
That should have been a touching admission and Yalene was probably supposed to swoon, but she was sceptical. She believed him that he had thought about that night and maybe found a causality chain in behaviour that might have something to do with her current bearing. However, it told her that for some reason, he was not thoroughly satisfied with her behaviour in general, and that he now said what needed to be said in order to placate her. Even if this was a genuine admission on his part, what would it change?  
When she was honest, then it would change a lot. It would mean much to her to find herself in a less hostile environment, but what she really wanted was not to be forced in any way.  
  
“If you had asked me to teach you foreign languages and act as your servant in exchange for your protection, I might have agreed.” She sounded more coolly than she had intended to be. To her utter surprise, Ruvol didn’t throw a childish tantrum. Instead, he simply nodded.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So why I am I still wearing this?” She gave her own, heavy collar a tug.  
  
“You are still essentially human. You don’t understand.” He replied insistently, but calmly. “Prestige is like currency with us, as is reputation. We don’t just take people in out of the goodness of our hearts. That’s weak, and there’s nothing worse than weakness for Druchii. If I had just declared you a member of my crew that night, my sorceress might have objected. As you have heard, I have problems enough with rebellious officers already … I can’t take much of a hit to my reputation. That sounds strange to you, I know, and maybe like a cheap excuse. But think, please, and don’t take that the wrong way … what would happen to you if I lost my position here?”  
  
Truth to be told, Yalene didn’t even want to think about that and shivered involuntarily.  
  
“And still … why do I get the feeling that you judge me constantly?”  
  
_‘Because I judge you so much that it is a wonder that you are not aflame right now.’_, she thought, half-amused, half-angry, keeping her composure and her facial expression as neutral as possible. “A human does not become an elf overnight.”  
  
A smile crept on Ruvol’s face “You know, Iruvan told me the same. He said that in many respects, you are like a newborn.”  
  
“He is a wise man.”, she noted dryly. A wise man that had information about her that was way too dangerous, but since the first mate was consulted for difficult problems, it made sense that she was discussed with him as well.  
  
“But it’s so difficult! We’ve discussed what differentiates a Druchii from another elf, and come to no conclusion.”  
  
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Her voice and demeanour were not as aloof as she liked it to be, because she could certainly understand the difficulty in the thought process. “If I were asked what it means to be human, I would be asking ‘to whose eyes’? Even then, it would probably be hard for me to adequately formulate an answer. I am me, after all. It is the most natural thing in the world for me.”  
  
“Exactly.” The Druchii nodded.  
  
“So I would take foreign impressions into account. The one thing that I have seen and felt more with Druchii than at any other place with any other creature is a casual attitude towards death.” She stretched the words ever so slightly, mimicking his speech patterns, which was surprisingly effective in making these words sound more intense.  
  
She felt the elf exhale more than she saw it, as he pondered on her words. “You don’t need to do that. I know that you are not accustomed to violence, and there’s no need for you to change that.” When Yalene arched an eyebrow as to express scepticism, he elaborated. “It would be so very easy to teach you killing, dove. It would be so easy to arrange for you to overhear my crew and what they plan to do to a prisoner, and give you an opportunity to end this prisoner’s suffering. You would feel bad, but you would do it, because ending one’s life instead of prolonging it only to live in agony is the better outcome. You know that. After the first kill, everything becomes easier. Mercy is your weakness, so mercy can make you kill. I also think that you are capable of self-defence.” He tried to smile, but it died on his face. Fitting, since what he was telling her was absolutely chilling, but nonetheless true.  
  
When she didn’t answer and simply shivered in response, he continued. “Druchii culture is difficult, as I told you. Unfortunately, any trace of kindness is considered weakness as well. I can’t be overly polite to you in public. Do you understand?”  
  
He had just announced that he could possibly mistreat her in public and then turn around and apologize for it behind closed doors, only to do it again. That left a bad taste in her mouth. On the other hand, there seemed to be some sort of polite standard in treating another’s slaves, like not touching anyone’s property. Her sisters-in-chains were reportedly never bothered, despite their frequent errands on deck.  
  
“I need to think on all this.” She announced after a thoughtful pause, to which he nodded. It was unfortunately the case that he was currently her only source on Druchii culture, and no single source was ever to be trusted implicitly. There was always some sort of bias, which was the reason why one took a second opinion on everything.  
  
“I understand. But these lethal games I just talked about? These games are part of us, part of our world. Either one learns to love these games or grows numb and boring in the process. You can’t climb the ladder without.” She could feel his hand trailing along her waist. “I don’t want to keep you imprisoned in my cabin or the hold. A scholar like you ought to see the world, and I intend to give you exactly that. I might have taken on more responsibility than I can possibly handle, but I told you that I would show you what it means to be Druchii. I’ll do just that. Starting with table manners.” With words, he turned her towards the table on his lap. “The food is getting cold, after all. We skip the soup and go right to the next course …”  
  
And then, he indeed took the time to explain her table manners, basic and advanced, so that she would not suffer embarrassment by bread spread again. It was not that different from advanced human table manners, just with more added complexity and a fondness for a variety of sauces and small, but numerous plates. At the end of the admittedly charming and insightful session, Cevirin was indeed forced to clean the table and then retreat to leave them both alone. Ruvol Blackwater also insisted on a cuddling session on the couch. Since Yalene felt that she would roll over if she moved too much after the few bites she had taken, this was a lovely thought. He was not wrong, she was getting awfully thin, even by elven standards, her ribs showing on her flesh. She was a little bony now, which was indeed unhealthy. But the heavy-lidded, fond look on the face of the Druchii told her that he imagined his evening to become more interesting.  
  
_‘Oh my.’_, she thought. _‘It appears he will practice his oh so famed seduction techniques again.’ _It was such a pity, because she had almost enjoyed this evening so far, aside from Cevirin’s antics. She had also appreciated the good-faith attempt of the first, tiny steps of teaching her about Druchii society. Now it seemed he wanted to be compensated.  
  
That thought left her curiously indifferent. She felt neither disgusted nor excited, just a little numb. That was probably a good sign – overinvolvement when doing one’s duty was never healthy. The captain marched confidently towards the couch while Yalene followed tentatively, trying to mentally prepare herself. When Ruvol sat down and beckoned her to come closer, she complied, sitting next to him, knowing fully well that he would pull her into his arms in a moment’s notice. It turned out she was right at that account, and let him do so.  
  
Well, at least he still had a shirt on. Even a dry one.  
  
She did note, however, that the warmth of his body was quite pleasant while he made himself comfortable and had pulled her between his legs, her upper body resting on his, her head on his shoulder. Again, she was thankful that there was no instinct to recoil, which would have been quite vexing for everybody involved. This position also allowed her to avoid eye contact, or any look on his face. While she got used to the steady heaving of his chest, she could feel the elf’s fingers on her neck, feeling the heavy collar that she had been forced into the other day.  
  
“That won’t do.”, he calmly determined. “We need another collar for you tomorrow.”  
  
How lovely.  
  
For a moment, she felt him tense up. No matter what this Druchii captain was, he was not devoid of empathy; he had to sense that she was currently basking in the pleasant feeling of indifference after being momentarily upset, which in his world had to be a worse crime than downright disdain. After all, a self-styled seducer could only work when he received some form of response. The silence was beginning to become awkward, and she thought that she would be called out any second now. Instead, she felt the man exhale, and then start with a calm explanation.  
  
“Did you know that we actually have a system for determining the importance of slaves?”  
  
“I did not. Please explain.”, she enquired, trying to mask that she couldn’t care less and would only file away this information in her head because she absolutely needed to.  
  
“The ring on the collar gives the clue. A rough iron ring designates an unskilled labourer, only to be used for hard work.” The unspoken subtext being that these people didn’t last long at all. “Copper rings have been identified to have some skill that is useful and are worth more on the market. Silver rings – which means that their rings are polished or gilded, despite the name – are ‘favoured’ slaves, important for their master and usually not for sale.” This was the moment when he lifted her chin, forcing her to look up and look into his face. Ruvol Blackwater looked serious and also a little stern. “You will be a Silver Ring. You are safe with me.”  
  
What Yalene did understand was the fact that the captain somehow expected her now to be thankful. _‘You strange creature.’_, she thought. _‘I didn’t deserve to be captured and sorted like cattle. I’m not cattle. I’m a human being. Who are you to take that away from me?’_ She was in stealth right now, biding her time until she would find a way to escape, so she swallowed any pride and anger that had reared their ugly heads. There was no choice but to lower her gaze demurely and keep her voice even and pleasant. “I understand. Thank you for your kindness.”  
  
These words seem to placate him somewhat, since he let go of her chin, while his expression changed from stern to attentive, thankfully changing the subject while he idly stroked her back. Without warning, he sat himself up and grabbed her by the hips, lifting her on his lap, so that she straddled him. For a moment, Yalene feared to have unwittingly provoked some of the more erratic responses of his, but for now, he just seemed to be content to have her sit on his lap and talk to her face to face. Judging from his expression, he was currently in a more sober mood.  
  
“I’ve heard that you talked to our little Lavinia.” Oh goodness, where would that lead? Yalene eyed him warily as he continued. “You also told Mireille that Lavinia has little talent for other languages?”  
  
“She hasn’t. Some people have trouble learning another language than their own, especially when they are far more talented in the mathematical area. Lavinia happens to be such a person.” Yalene replied, still wary where this might lead. By all the gods and their mothers, she sincerely hoped that he did not want her to translate or be there when they had their adventurous and from the sound of things, quite expert bedroom antics.  
  
“Can you teach her?”  
  
Oh. That was another matter altogether. “Reikspiel is closer to Tilean from a linguistic point of view, so it makes more sense to teach her a little bit of a language that is easier for her to learn. Druhir, on the other hand, is so different from her language that it is hard to teach her that … in fact, it is hard to teach Druhir, or any Eltharin dialect, to humans at all. The language is far too complex and nuanced for human standards.” This comment visibly pleased the Druchii, but he kept listening. “Her need to communicate is great, so I am currently trying to teach her the basics of Reikspiel, so that she has at least some way to express herself. Besides, I seem to recall that you know a bit of Reikspiel yourself.”  
  
“Good.” He smiled. “Since you are able to teach a slave with little talent in another language, you can teach me as well. I want you to prepare lessons for me.”  
  
Again, Yalene eyed him warily as the Druchii kept her firmly on his lap, his hands resting on her hips. “Which language do you want to learn?”  
  
“Eventually? Every language I can possibly learn.” He laughed. “But in the beginning, I want to broaden my knowledge about Reikspiel and learn Tilean. Is that feasible in your opinion, cunning linguist?”, he teased, smiling from ear to ear while Yalene thought that this was an awfully sensible response from a person that not always acted sensibly.  
  
“Certainly … but it will take time.”, she noted tentatively.  
  
“How much time?”  
  
“Hard to say. A talented linguist can learn the basics of a language within three months, and become fluent in a year if he throws himself into the matter for every day. You, however, have a flotilla to command and usually only have one or two hours in the evening, not to mention that a good portion of your evenings are already taken. Judging from that, it will take years. However, I happen to know that life at sea can become quite boring. Perhaps you will have more time when we reach calmer waters.” She tilted her head. “Haven’t you been formally trained in Reikspiel?”  
  
“Oh no.” He laughed. “I picked it up over decades from slaves and was taught how to read. It’s still hard sometimes.”  
  
“Mostly an autodidact, then?” Yalene couldn’t help but respect that. Teaching oneself a completely new language, especially one so different from one’s own native tongue as Reikspiel was to Druhir, was a difficult thing to do without help, and it also led her to smile. “You have done something difficult then. When I was a child, I tried to teach myself Bretonnian through the use of a dictionary and a novel I desperately wanted to read.”  
  
“Did you manage?”  
  
“In part. My father intervened, because that book was really not meant for children, but learning Bretonnian very much is. Why do you want to learn a new language? It seems to me that most Druchii don’t need to bother.” It indeed seemed to be remarkable that this almost ridiculously authoritarian manly man wanted to pour his time into belated education. But then again, he had already demonstrated his interest for foreign literature, and that was almost certainly connected. Still, she wanted to hear his thoughts on the matter.  
  
“Broadening my knowledge has proven itself to be an invaluable asset in the past.” His grip around her hips tightened, and he started to guide her hips in lazy, circling motions, grinding her against his lap. Yalene once more felt helpless, more like a spectator in this scene than a participant. As not to appear too passive and unresponsive, as this had proven to be fatal, she covered the Druchii’s hands with her own, letting them rest there without applying any pressure, her gaze unfocused. She could not deny that she felt a grain of excitement gathering in her stomach, but it was so encased in doubt that she couldn’t tell it apart from budding nausea. At least she was clothed for now, clad in a simple, ridiculously low-cut dress that at least covered her arms, waist and legs, which she thought was much more comfortable than the ridiculous fashion female Dark Elves fancied. Mentally, she tried to prepare herself for what was to come, as the captain continued talking as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  
  
“Riding lessons.” He smirked. “They should be part of every language lesson, don’t you think? I want you to make a plan, vocabulary, homework, anything you deem necessary. You will be provided writing material, and you will have access to your own book again. You can work in my cabin. I also want you to read a few of my scrolls.” He grimaced. “History is such a dry topic, but you seem like a person who wants to inform herself in that way, correct?”  
  
Trying to ignore the growing bulge pressing against her while he mercilessly ground her hips against his, Yalene tried to change the subject, appealing to his vanity in the hopes that he would forget his growing desire. “You said broadening your knowledge has proven itself to be invaluable in the past?”  
  
In a sense, her plan worked, as the Druchii stopped in his motions. Instead, he took her hands into his again, intertwining them while he sighed dramatically. “Why do you keep making this harder on yourself than it needs to be, dove? What can I do to make you comfortable?”  
  
_‘Stop trying to force me into just about anything.’_, she thought, but that was not a thought she could voice at all. “I am sorry.” She tried to sound demure and less amused. “I still have language lessons on my mind. I will try to do better.” Nobody would ever know how it was possible that this kind of blatant untruth was rolling down her tongue.  
  
To her utter surprise, Ruvol Blackwater was able not to fly into a petulant rage when being confronted with a slight hurdle like this. Perhaps he was too tired to do so, or in a more tolerant mood than the last time. It was all well, since he seemed to take her hesitance with good humour. “Alright then, let’s get you into the mood.” He smiled amiably. “But what would a learned woman like you find exciting?” There was a strange gleam in his eye as he pretended to think hard about this. “Poetry? Oh no, it’s too late for that. Stargazing? Too cloudy. A nice walk? Ah, but you are still afraid of all those Druchii on deck. I could see it in your eyes.” For a moment there, he seemed genuinely concerned and pensive, before he locked eyes with her, his voice now a low whisper as he let her hands go. “Come closer.”  
  
Warily, Yalene complied, bending forward, resting her hands on his chest while her face hovered only an inch before his. She could smell the seawater on him, the scent he had acquired during his long day, could see the tiny runes on his pale cheekbones, the damp strands of hair that had escaped his ponytail. Even more so, she could see the twinkle in his dark, almost black eyes as he lightly placed his hands at the sides of her face, carefully cradling it. “You said you were an old spinster and most of your experiences did not exactly charm your socks off. Is that true?” She nodded in response. “That means that you have little kissing experience, you poor thing, Is that so?” Again, she nodded. That made the smile on his face grow into a smirk. “That means that you have no idea how many accidents can happen when you are trying yourself out. You just skipped the awkward phase of adolescence. This simply can’t stand!” He playfully pretended a little bit of outrage. “No, we will acquaint you with all you have missed. For example, the damselfish!” Before she knew it, he pressed his lips on hers while emulating the lips of said fish, which was a surprisingly wet and utterly ridiculous experience. Despite herself, she found herself giggling into this kiss. Ruvol wasn’t done, though. “The slobbery dog!” True to the announcement, Yalene found her mouth to be assaulted by a saliva-dripping kiss that amounted more to licking her teeth than anything else. While she was occupied, the elf let one hand roam freely over her body. In the meantime, his impression of the slobbery dog included some flicks of his tongue over her face, culminating into the licking of her ear, which only seemed to tickle. “The pearl diver!” She was not allowed a moment’s breath as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, merely concerned with sticking it as deeply into her throat as possible. If any person in the history of kisses had ever done this, she hoped that this person would step on little twigs for all eternity.  
Pressed against his body and breathless from that playful assault of bad kisses, the elf took a moment to wipe his mouth with one hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he watched the giggling Yalene. “Ah, my dear, but we are not done. We still have the boob-clawer and the surgeon to go. It’s the teeth, you see. You can also beg for mercy, if you think that this dreaded corsair would ever grant it.”  
  
“Mercy!”, she laughed, as she would never have thought that bad kissing would be this disgusting, messy and at the same time entertaining. Ruvol obliged, pulling her into a tight embrace, resting his forehead against hers as he closed his eyes and matched his breath to her own while he pressed her hips tightly against his lap, his arousal evident. He took a moment of peace before he let his hot breath play on her ear, barely even brushing his lips against her earlobe, gently nibbling at her neck for a moment before he finally kissed her properly. It was just an almost innocent thing, a soft caress of lips against lips, tender pressure from the lower lip causing the sweetest warmth to spread in Yalene’s chest. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, having leaned into the kiss and savouring every second of it. Parting her lips for his tentatively probing tongue proved to be a delightful experience. His playful explorations of the tongue made her heart flutter like that of a young maiden that she technically was and was not. When she finally pulled away after what felt like floating on a cloud, she had to catch her breath.  
  
At least the Druchii Captain fared no better, his expression almost fascinated as he looked her into the eyes, holding her tightly.  
  
“You asked why broadening my knowledge has helped me.” He whispered in a low voice, his eyes never leaving hers as he slipped one hand under her skirt, caressing her thighs. “Years ago, we were locked in terrible battle with Asur. We were losing badly, our lines almost broken, two ships already taken by the enemy.” He stole one tiny peck from her lips before he continued his breathless account. “We had taken a lot of strange oil from an Imperial vessel earlier that week, but nobody knew what it was, only that it was dwarven in origin and undoubtedly dangerous. But unlike my brothers and sisters in arms, I had listened to the prisoners, I had read up on Imperial science and engineering. I made an educated guess that this dwarven oil would burn even in water, and I used that knowledge and that assumption freely that day. The black oil filled the ocean, it burned brightly and without fail, leaving only an ashen sea. The tide of battle turned, since unlike my foster father, I was able to keep calm and keep my wits about me. When the battle ended, we had taken three ships and had even taken the enemy captain alive. I will never forget the cheering of my people, the calls for ‘Blackwater! Blackwater!’ filling the air.” He smiled, and this smile contained a dreamy, faraway quality. “So you see, my dove, daring, wits and knowledge keep me alive. The world is a cruel and unforgiving place, and battle is all around. The battlefield is where only the quick survive, and I am so very quick.”  
  
This speech was surprisingly poignant, as Ruvol himself painted a picture of himself, a picture of a man forged in war and so accustomed to violence that he had only the faintest idea that victory and success were not always tied to carnage. Yalene found herself impressed, but not by the tale of martial prowess, but rather with the epiphany this man had, and that a victory had made him more determined to understand the world around him. This was his true strength, and that was something that Yalene could respect.  
With more ease than she would have liked, he rose from the couch, lifting her up with him and supporting her by the rear while she clung to him and he carried her to bed. “I’ve reconsidered. Read me some poetry tonight. Reikspiel, Druhir, doesn’t matter. I once heard a poem that ended with the line ‘I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul’. I can’t keep these words out of my head, but never found which poem they belonged to.”  
  
“Invictus.”, she replied helpfully, the tip of her nose almost touching his. ‘Unbroken’, an inspirational and well-known poem, which seemed fitting considering what she just had heard. It was not surprising that he knew part of this poem and drew strength out of it, since ‘Invictus’ was meant to remind people that they were not truly defeated until their death, that they were stronger than they thought. Even this black-hearted Druchii pirate understood as much, and if he, who obviously had suffered tragedy in his life also, refused to break, so could she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely enough, the way a Black Ark works is not completely clear, so I let my imagination fly for a minute, trying to piece together what it would look like from the descriptions and pictures that exist. I have never played Total War II and I kind of regret it at points like these. On the other hand, it was so much fun to imagine that beautiful and equally terrifying sight that a Black Ark must be in this setting.


	11. Mist and Mirrors

As if this gigantic ship was a domain of its own, thin clouds of mist wafted through the winding pathways of blackened wood and metal; it was almost tempting to use the word ‘city’ for a Black Ark like this, a swimming community in its own right, with its own laws. It was a bustling, swimming metropolis capable of housing thousands within its massive hull, alien and strange in its appearance.  
  
That the ground Yalene was walking on was part of a ship was almost unthinkable, the level and smooth surface didn’t look like any deck she had ever seen. How the Druchii kept the ground they were walking on so polished and shiny that she could see the shade of her reflection on it, Yalene never knew, but it was the same shiny material that was embedded into the wood and into the buildings and towers. Since space was limited on any naval vessel, the Druchii had determined to build vertically, so a myriad of bridges and stairs connected places. This place reminded Yalene of an anthill, an anthill forming a labyrinth made of polished wooden walls, fine artwork etched into stone and wood, overflowing with the pale, coldly and cruelly beautiful inhabitants. The strangest thing was the smell, however. Underneath the fish and typical smells she would associate with any city, there was a certain characteristic scent, like smoke and cedarwood, which was actually quite pleasant.  
  
This was a military vessel that currently served as a temporary port, and as such was filled with Druchii of all kinds, provided all kinds of Druchii were armed. They had passed the strangest and most quiet marketplace Yalene had ever seen, with Dark Elves followed by slaves, mostly human. There had also been a small group of scantily clad women that Ruvol had whispered to her were Death Hags, and that she should under no circumstances make eye contact with them. She had also seen a glimpse of what she thought might have been a tall, fair-haired High Elf man in chains, and even a Dwarven slave. The sight of so many creatures in chains was almost as unsettling as the sight of the black dragon roaming the skies far above, just a small dot in the clouds. A dragon, for goodness’s sake! The insanity and sheer danger of this place was breathtaking.  
  
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Ruvol Blackwater’s voice woke her up out of her reverie and she quickly hurried up the stairs he was leading her. She had to admit to herself that this man cleaned up nicely, although she wouldn’t have voiced that thought out loud - his ego was inflated enough already. He might have been a bloody pirate, but he was exactly as vain as she had initially assumed, putting an unusual amount of importance on his grooming. She also thought he was more childish, demanding and even insecure than she had initially thought. He did wash himself meticulously, but he scoffed at earrings and other jewellery as ‘not manly enough’ and would not even allow rings on his fingers. Ridiculous. He was fine with washing his long hair regularly, but doing anything else but binding it into a corsair’s topknot was – again – not manly enough.   
  
Today, however, he had done all he could to preen himself and let himself be preened, as Yalene was now acutely aware. He had opted for clothing that was elegant in simplicity, trousers and shirt black as midnight and accented by dark blue elements and some sort of blue sash. Instead of his cloak made of Sea Dragon hide, he had chosen his fine, grey one, while his hair was glossy and braided into a half-loose style that Yalene had seen with Druchii, Eonir and Asur alike. Even more so, there was a perpetual smile on his face – he looked happy and in good spirits. It made him look younger, but that was not something that Yalene thought he would cherish to hear. She also didn’t think that he would cherish to hear her opinion that one had to merely change every inch of colour on his body and clothes and ignore the tiny, tattooed runes on his cheekbones to make him appear like one of those majestic High Elves she had encountered a few times.   
  
It turned out that he had led her to the top of one of the spires on this Ark, where they were both able to see this ship from a different perspective. The two Druchii sailors that were with them on the plateau politely ignored the two of them while Ruvol grinned as he watched her reaction.   
  
He was not disappointed, because the sight took Yalene’s breath away. All the topsy-turvydom of this Ark was now on full display, as well as the ingenuity of the architecture. In the cold, biting winds tugging at their clothes, Yalene found that there was beauty in this place, a strange, alien, awe-inspiring and altogether saturnine beauty, enshrouded by the mists crawling across the sea.  
  
“This is the ‘Bastion of a Thousand Tears’.”, Ruvol Blackwater exclaimed proudly, his eyes shining brightly. “When the Witch King first tried to retake Ulthuan, two Black Arks like this one were beached to found his first city.” A little quieter, he added wistfully. “It takes so much wealth, connections and magic to build one of those monsters and make them float, but it is worth it. It’s every corsair’s dream to commandeer a Black Ark someday.”   
  
“So it’s your dream as well?”  
  
“Of course.”, he smiled, letting his fingers glide over the black wood before he turned to her. “One day. But first, listen.” In the corner of her eye, Yalene noticed that the other two Druchii sailors were departing as she listened attentively to the captain. He checked that they were indeed alone for one moment on this plateau, and then addressed her in Reikspiel for good measure, just to ensure that their conversation was not easily overheard. “Remember what I told you: Stay behind me, watch and learn. Don’t make eye contact, don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t move unless it’s to follow me or unless told otherwise. Nobles have very specific rules when it comes to common folk. We both have to stay three swordlengths away from her at all times unless she beckons me otherwise … even then, you stay back. This is important: Nobles will cut you down if you break that rule.”  
  
Well, that seemed paranoid to the extreme, but for now, these rules were her rules. She would just go along with that indignity and continue to have her gaze on the horizon that promised freedom, instead of thinking about her current predicament. She was currently detaching herself from everything and conserving her energy for her eventual escape. She would learn as much as she could, see wonders when there were wonders and ignore tragedy although there was pain aplenty. It was too risky, so she would not allow herself to be touched by the Druchii, their slaving practices, their delight in cruelty or those scheming ways any further. Soon enough, she would leave it all behind and would not look back. But until that day, she would let Ruvol Blackwater pull at her strings as if she were a doll. As if he had read that thought, the Druchii Captain stepped closer to her and lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes.   
  
“Aloof is good … it means confidence. You are one of mine, you ought to be proud.” That delusional statement combined with his smouldering gaze and unabashed sincerity made Yalene smile involuntarily with amusement, but she hid it quickly within a dutiful curl of her lips as she had just obeyed his command. That seemed to placate him, as he continued in an even voice. “Vervain is a rather eccentric creature. The esteemed and terrible Lady Sevirr doesn’t believe in wasting precious resources such as slaves and doesn’t torture them to death as others of her station do. In that regard, she is practical – her slaves are always loyal, well-behaved, in good shape and rarely beaten.”   
  
Yalene knew that she was supposed to be impressed, but she still snorted in amusement. “’Esteemed and terrible’? Is that the language used?”  
  
Ruvol, in turn, looked at her incredulously for a moment, before a fading smile flickered on his face. “It is a bit strange, now that you mention it. It’s just how things are.” He sighed, rubbing his temple with his index finger. “But back to Vervain: her position as a sorceress is more important to our people than her highborn status. She’s also _very_ hard to please and erratic. I have had dealings with her in the past: She’s an aesthete through and through, dealing only with beautiful things and people. Her definition of beauty is rather broad, though. She loves art, but her taste varies, she loves animals, but her love for a monstrous Cold One and a fuzzy ferret is equal …”  
  
“Cold One?”, Yalene interjected, looking at him quizzically.   
  
“Giant Lizards. They make for the best cavalry. Topic for another time.” Ruvol explained quickly, with a hint of pride in his voice, before he continued with the description of Vervain’s exploits. “There’s this story about a group of idiots that cut the ears and lips of Vervain’s latest breed of Dark Steeds. Next thing everybody knows, the screams of the ones responsible fill the halls of her estate for weeks and she keeps writing her letters on what is clearly dried skin.”  
  
That sounded like a lovely woman. Yalene kept her face expressionless on purpose as Ruvol reminisced with a look on his face that might have indicated some sort of strange fondness. “She never raises her voice and she is civilized in her dealings, but if you cross her, she strikes back with everything she has. I respect that. It also makes her one of the rare trading partners that won’t habitually swindle you … it just depends on her mood. In past years, she has financed me without charge one year, but pressed me for every bit of profit the next year. Another year, she refused to finance me at all, but she has always been straightforward. You have to understand that this is a worthy ally to have. Usually, Druchii can only be relied upon to honour their military and craftsmanship contracts.”   
  
That was an incredibly sad state of affairs. How did this society even function when people couldn’t be relied upon to keep their word and scheming was seen as the norm, even an ideal to aspire to?  
  
Ruvol eyed her up and down, wiped away an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder and - pleased with himself and with her – gave her a light pat on the cheek and swirled around theatrically, cloak flying. Yalene was almost impressed, since that kind of flair had to be practised carefully, and he pulled it off in a tiny, dark alleyway or what counted as such in the deep bowels of a vessel. She matched his crisp walking pace until they arrived at their destination after a few minutes. Where they were, Yalene couldn’t tell, but the wooden ceiling was high above them, the area bathed in the violet hue of witchlights. The forefront of the ‘house’, which seemed to be just a door within an endless, massive wooden wall, was as promising as it was elaborate, decorated with lavish bronze relief depicting dancing nude women, their bodies arched and stretched into graceful figures. The craftsmanship was excellent and Yalene had to admit that the motive, while somewhat scandalous, was lovely and pleasing to the eye. The door itself, gilded and decorated with delicate carvings, was to a door as a castle was to a house – technically the same, but worlds apart in splendour.   
  
More astounding than the artwork however was the person standing beside that door, right next to two guards whose faces were largely obscured by their helmets. The lean shape of first mate Iruvan peeled itself out of the shadows, passing his captain and Yalene with a respectful nod, but otherwise acknowledged them merely as one would a passing acquaintance and left. There might or might not have been a knowing glance between him and Ruvol, but otherwise, they just left each other to their own devices as the former left, while the latter asked the guards to please announce himself for the scheduled visit with Lady Vervain.  
  
Before Yalene could muse about that strange non-meeting, she had to focus on her surroundings, as stepping through the door when prompted transported her into another world within the blink of an eye. The Ark itself looked foreboding, with mists in the street, the salty scent of the sea ubiquitous. This changed when stepping through the door onto the thick carpet in rich blue colour. The ivory-coloured ground itself was polished so thoroughly that it was hard to tell which material had been used, only that it was shined enough for a mirror image. The walls were painted in the same colour as the ground, upholding the illusion of a large, bright and sunlit space that this place certainly was not. The illusion of space was only heightened by the apparent lack of obvious guards or servants. Instead, while Ruvol and Yalene gave their cloaks to a young, human slave, they barely saw another soul when walking through the bright halls, decorated with tasteful landscape paintings, lovingly crafted furniture and a fair share of beautifully polished and framed mirrors of differing sizes. Dark blue, white and silver were the dominating colours in this place, and Yalene could have sworn that she saw marble worked into the rooms. It was insane to think that that much work and luxury was done in what basically amounted to a ship, and it boggled the mind especially since Ruvol had told her earlier that Lady Vervain only rarely travelled, and that this Ark only served as a temporary port and would resume its duties after this raiding season. Still, these quarters had been furnished and altered to her wishes and out of her pocket. The woman had a severe case of entitled prickdom combined with way too much wealth, that much was certain.   
  
The room in which they were led was overwhelming for all the wrong reasons. The lady herself was lounging on a couch in an admittedly appetizing manner, clad merely in the scantiest of white underwear that barely covered her private areas and light thigh-high see-through stockings, her body covered in a sheer, white robe that absolutely left nothing to the imagination. What was the purpose of such a piece of clothing when it did nothing but entice the viewer to look a bit more closely at her underwear? Nevermind, she was a Druchii, after all. Even for an elf, Vervain was dainty and graceful, with sharp features, vibrant violet eyes, alabaster skin and long, silvery white hair that reached down her waist. She looked thoroughly amused at her other guest while eating grapes with a piquant delicateness that would have made some elven goddess of beauty weep. Indeed, she fit in perfectly with all the cold and beautiful things in this home, surrounded by guards in polished armour in another display of cold perfection.   
  
More impressive than the lady herself was her guest, but only because he was sitting in a luxurious bathtub being washed by a bronze-skinned human man who had the displeasure of being clad in merely a loincloth and nothing else. The Druchii man himself looked displeased, to say the least and fixated Ruvol with a hateful gaze as the latter entered the room smiling like a young boy receiving the gift of his dreams while Vervain rose, mirroring his smile.   
  
“Ruvol! So nice of you to come by.” Her voice was airy and possessed a dreamy quality, speaking barely above a whisper as if she breathed and singsonged every word that came to her mind. The high pitch of her voice only heightened that musical impression in her speech patterns. It was a dainty gesture she made that placated her guards and negated the rules of noble distancing with barely a flick of her wrist. The way she moved was sensual and languid, as if she was in a perpetual, dream-like state, her sheer robe trailing behind her like a moonlit cloud as she extended her hand to Ruvol, who promptly and with the routine of an expert charmer placed a polite kiss on her hand. Yalene noticed that he stepped away from her immediately and kept a distance of about three feet at all times during the conversation … so there were more rules at play, or so she gathered. Meanwhile, Vervain continued. “I am so pleased that you are here. Your officer has no manners at all … his perfume is cheap and he gifted me with a golden statue and an untrained slave. How trite.” In another woman’s hands, these words would have been a sharp rebuke, but the airy way she voiced them made it appear like she was not fazed at all, and had merely taken steps to remove the offensive smell of said perfume by putting her guest into a bathtub at once, right before her eyes. Yalene stole a glance at the man who was reportedly an officer of Ruvol’s, and promptly recognized him. That square jaw and short, black hair had caught her attention the first time that she had seen that famed and troublesome Viroges on deck. What was going on here? Yalene wisely decided to keep any speculation to herself and let the scene play out.   
  
Before Ruvol could answer, Viroges interjected, grumbling as he did so. “For the record, that perfume is a scent by Cervellas … .”  
  
“If it’s bad, it’s cheap.” Vervain cut him off gently, but firmly. “You should be clean now, boorish guest of mine. Why don’t you get out of the tub?”  
  
Reluctantly, Viroges did so, and even in the sexually open society of Dark Elves, he was currently shamed by having to stand naked and dripping with water in the middle of a lady’s living room while she eyed him up and down. Yalene couldn’t help but to steal a glance also as the young man, the slave, as she reminded herself, scrambled to get a towel. Slowly but steadily, Yalene became better in telling the differences between elves. She could tell that Vervain was short and delicate, almost fragile, which only added to her otherworldly beauty. From what she had seen of Iruvan, he was more lithe and leaner than average and possessed sharp features; Ruvol possessed chiselled features, was powerfully built and unusually tall, with slender hips and pronounced muscles, which gave him a distinct, wiry look. In comparison, Viroges was stocky and broad-chested, although Yalene couldn’t help but notice the bared lower body, no matter how much she didn’t want to. She noted for herself: Strong calves and medium-sized manhood. What an embarrassing scene. She tried to keep her eyes down and listened to the conversation as not to make the situation more awkward for the officer, if that was even possible.   
  
Vervain didn’t even so much as spare a glance at the humiliated, naked Druchii. Instead, she turned towards Ruvol, her smile as pleasant as a spring morning. “You however smell most pleasant, my dear. No trace of seawater whatsoever. I am pleased. But allow me to chide you for your lack of leadership. Look what your officer has brought me.” She pointed at the back of the room, where said golden statue stood. Yalene recognized this as a statue of Sigmar, no doubt stolen out of a temple. It seemed that there was currently some sort of intrigue going on that mainly considered the favour of this lady, and that Viroges had messed up in a most spectacular fashion by gifting it. Good. If this Druchii was brought down by a statue of Sigmar, the Patron God of the Empire would have at least some small measure of vengeance for the Druchii defiling his temple.  
  
But Lady Vervain wasn’t done complaining. She then beckoned the young slave to step closer to her, who had up until now tried to frantically towel up poor Viroges. It took a shove from his master to follow that gesture, shaking in fear as he promptly intruded into the forbidden sword length-distance. Vervain had to stop her guards with a halting motion, as they had stirred from their statue-like countenance when the intrusion happened. Yalene didn’t know him, but he acted as if he was merely interpreting body language and looked very much like a Tilean to her … perhaps a member of Lavinia’s crew, since he looked around her age. There were no visible marks of abuse on him, thank Shallya, but he was clearly terrified and did not know what to do, his eyes darting around nervously. The fact that he could be universally considered attractive was probably the reason why he had been brought as a gift in the first place.   
  
“What do you think, Ruvol? After that horrible statue, what do I do now?” She looked the young slave straight in the eye, her voice an ephemeral whisper. “Are you for me or are you for Khaine?”  
  
That question was chilling in its innocence. Of course, Ruvol Blackwater was not fazed; for him, this was business as usual. “My officer is not here on my orders; he is here on his own accord.” He said in a warm and somewhat playful tone, his eyes shining with amusement. “The statue is horrible, but this slave is a fine specimen. Let Khaine have a healthy slave, but there is no need to give him the beautiful as long as you can enjoy them. Take this handsome young man and train him like only you can; if he displeases you, you can still sell him or give Khaine his due. It costs you little, but you could gain much more.”  
  
Vervain weighed her head as she ran her fingers through the poor Tilean’s hair, who was shaking violently at this point, while Viroges was just staring daggers at everyone in this room. “His eyes are beautiful. Yes, you are right. I will do just that.” As disgusting as it was to see that a fellow human being was measured so callously and only barely escaped the fate of horribly dying on the altar of the god of murder, Yalene couldn’t help but to feel relieved that the Tilean had survived this little exchange unscathed. Meanwhile, the Lady waved for another of her servants to usher the Tilean away.   
  
In the interim, Viroges had used the time to wrap the towel around his waist to have some measure of modesty, his eyes now containing a hopeful gleam. “Thank you for accepting my gift ...” Too bad he was cut off quickly, as Lady Vervain was silencing with a gesture.   
  
“I accept your gift as an apology for your horrible behaviour. That is the only reason why you are still breathing. Now leave my house. Goodbye.” She made a gesture as if to wave away the Druchii like a bit of dust. His eyes grew wide and he looked down upon himself, barely covered as he was. Vervain wrinkled her nose. “You may keep the towel. I will also send you your clothes cleaned and free of that terrible stench. Now shoo.” When Viroges started to open his mouth to reply something, Vervain repeated with slightly more force. “Shoo!”  
  
It was pitiful, and Yalene felt sorry for this man, a proud corsair himself, who was now being complimented out of the house and would have to walk the streets merely with a towel around his waist. His return home to the ship would truly be a walk of shame, and the casual cruelty the woman had displayed was now replaced by amusement as she turned to Ruvol again. “Now that this troublesome guest is gone, let’s talk business. I hope you will discipline him?”  
  
“If milady wishes him disciplined, how can I refuse?” Yalene could tell that he was barely able to contain his joy, but he did. Heroic effort, that. Since the woman barely wore anything, he was already showing a heroic effort in terms of etiquette and basic decency. How he was able to keep eye contact was a mystery.   
  
Vervain nodded, pleased, and then turned her head towards Yalene. “Once again, you display good taste. You are always accompanied by these beautiful women. Is she for me?”  
  
“I’m afraid not.” Ruvol smiled apologetically, gesturing towards Yalene to come closer and present the gift, as he had instructed her beforehand. Yalene had no idea what the box contained, but it weighed nothing, which told her that the scene unfolding would be interesting. With the most deference she could muster, she slowly approached, only to witness how the ritual of gift-giving played out. Another elven woman slid across the room to meet Yalene, her collar marking her as a slave as well. It was her who took the box from Yalene’s hands, only to peer into the box, nodding in satisfaction, and then carrying that box towards Vervain to present the contents in that tedious ritual.   
  
The reaction was loud and clear, as the Lady cooed at the sight unfolding towards her, and she gingerly picked up the contents of the box after clearly habitually running her hands around its exterior as if to check for something. It was nothing but a handkerchief, beautifully and skillfully stitched with a complex pattern of strawberries. Indeed, this looked to her like a family heirloom, as the stitches were fine and would have taken hours and hours to complete. It was a masterpiece as far as handkerchiefs of the non-silk-variety went, and in a sense, Yalene understood why the Lady Vervain preferred it to a golden statue and a handsome slave. It looked to her like this woman was obscenely rich, so she could have any gold statue she wished. But this little piece of art, this lovingly stitched piece of cloth was simply skill, and that was not always free to be bought, especially if she lacked the experience of the world. How can one ask for a pattern of strawberries without ever having seen strawberries?  
  
“I love the colours. I love the pattern.” Vervain announced in a dreamy voice, pressing the handkerchief against her chest. “Thank you, how thoughtful of you.”  
  
“I’m glad you like it.” Ruvol replied, way too smugly for his own good. “If my gifts make milady smile, I could present them to you all day. You invited me for a reason, so how may I serve your pleasure further?”  
  
“So direct … it is only proper to reply with directness: I need your help.” She sighed, still in a dream cloud of delight. “Send your girl outside, let’s have some wine and I tell you what I need.”  
  
_‘Here we go again’_ Yalene thought, willing herself to not roll her eyes and lowering her head as she silently and swiftly vacated the premises to leave the Druchii to their devices.   
  


*

  
Ruvol had been nothing short of enthusiastic when leaving Vervain’s abode, quickly ushering Yalene back to the ship. Since he was still impeccably groomed and not gone long out of her sight, she assumed that the news the sorceress had to share were exciting enough to make even Ruvol Blackwater, serial seducer and scourge of the seas, stop in his tracks. He then left her with a pile of books and scrolls he had collected from his captains after their most recent raid on a Bretonnian vessel a few days ago and hurried into the officer’s mess, a room adjacent to his cabin.   
  
Whatever got him excited would keep him that way, Yalene thought to herself, and just hoped that he would leave that excess energy with either Lavinia or Katharina, his favourite little toys, instead of her. While she couldn’t deny that he was clearly experienced and had made their one encounter moderately pleasurable, she simply didn’t trust him – there was no telling if he would be having mood swings, throwing a childish tantrum, expecting applause or feel the sudden urge to sacrifice to his murderous god.   
  
While she was working herself through the pile of books and scrolls, she noticed that this would have been the library of a person on an explorer’s vessel, containing detailed maps, descriptions of foreign religions and cultures, especially the Lizardmen. This was an enigmatic race, rarely studied in the Empire. Yalene considered herself a learned woman, but she had to admit that she knew next to nothing about Lizardmen in general. It seemed that the captain of the vessel had gone on an expedition of sorts. Intrigued, Yalene checked the log entries carefully, which led her to the conclusion that the expedition had been to the Southlands on the far side of the world, and had been afterwards racing towards the safe harbour of the Bretonnian province of L’Anguille. Their haste had led to disaster, because Ruvil had been right: After weathering a storm, they had run out of most supplies and had attached themselves to the trading vessel and its escort ship to limp back home.   
Tragically, if they had restocked properly at any port before that instead, and lost a little time, they would have never met their fate at the hands of the Druchii.   
  
Judging from the whole log, Yalene concluded that the Bretonnians had to have found something within the jungle. She also found a lot of material in regards to the language of the Lizardmen, cultural background, and finally a journal that described a temple that this ill-fated expedition had found, written in a clear and crisp hand. The author of this journal also mentioned rather excitedly how much funding he would have to request. It took her a while, but from all of those nuggets of information, the description of the climate, the log and Ruvol’s nautical charts, she was able to make an educated guess where the Bretonnians had found that untouched temple presumably full of treasure.   
  
That was the crux of the matter. It seemed that she had her hands on a plan for an expedition that undoubtedly doubled as a treasure hunt. Were she among Imperial or even Bretonnian scholars, Yalene wouldn’t have hesitated to report to just about any authority to get funding. But she was among Druchii now, and whatever might be found in that temple would benefit her captor in particular, and the Dark Elves as a whole. Since Druchii were firmly on the side of destruction and practised the dark arts far too close for comfort to the ruinous powers, it was ethically wrong to alert them. Given that determining the exact location required her specific skills and the fact that the Bretonnian-speaking humans on this vessel were illiterate, she was fairly certain that she could simply hide this information. Crossing out a few lines of the journal would erase the most important clues forever, even if there was a Druchii literate in Bretonnian on board. It would be so easy to just let the clues disappear forever and hope that another stout-hearted adventurer would find this temple and uncover its secret far from Druchii eyes.   
  
That was not even taking into account that the Lizardmen were quite likely not amused to have their temples sighted without having been asked. Lustria was a very recent discovery, and yet they already had a reputation for crushing any curious explorer venturing into their jungles. It was hard to say on which point on the ethical spectrum the Lizardmen stood, but their motives and their language seemed so different, so alien. She wanted to learn more, but the only way to reach that goal would be to notify Ruvol on this potential lead.   
  
While she was weighing her options, Mireille rushed into the cabin, her eyes wide and her voice filled with urgency. “Master needs you in the officer’s mess right now.”  
  
Fantastic. When the word ‘master’ was used, Ruvol was usually about to go on a violent, bloody and oh so manly rampage. It was smarter to acquiesce quickly, so Yalene put down the journal and made haste.   
  
Mireille didn’t follow her after Yalene entered the officer’s mess, her eyes downcast, giving a graceful and short curtsey as it was expected from her station. When she lifted her head, she could see that the room was packed with Druchii; some faces she had seen before on this vessel, some of them she hadn’t. However, from the markings on their clothing she could see that this was a gathering of all captains in this flotilla in addition to the officers of the ‘Defiance’, save that poor Viroges fellow that had tried to curry favour so pitifully earlier. She had never been among so many Druchii and had their undivided attention … in Hochfels, in the Freiherr’s mansion and even on the Black Ark, she had been all but invisible, oftentimes beneath notice. But now, she could feel all eyes on her for the first time and had the distinct urge to flee instantly. While she was dressed modestly for pleasure-slave standards, it still felt like she was put on display whenever she was in the vicinity of more than two Dark Elves. If she was completely honest with herself, she was afraid of being in the same room with any of those creatures, Ruvol and Iruvan being notable exceptions.   
  
Ruvol’s eyes wandered down upon her form to excellent theatrical effect while he paused, stretching that pause a little too long to make it wonderfully dramatic, before he addressed her in a sickeningly sweet and unabashedly smug tone.   
  
“Yalene, you infiltrated the human lands, correct?”  
  
She nodded obediently as her heart started to sink.   
  
“You have collected a lot of information about human customs. Even the military ones, if memory serves.”  
  
Oh goodness, would he try to force her to give up military information so he could attack the Imperial Fleet? What was he doing? Again, Yalene nodded cautiously, wary of the response, shifting uncomfortably.   
  
The smile on Ruvol’s face grew wider, his eyes gleaming. “We are about to get creative, so we can as well consider softer methods. Tell me what the humans do to punish insubordinate officers.”  
  
Ah, this was about Viroges. Yalene was reasonably certain that Ruvol wanted to kill this man in the most horrible and ‘artful’ fashion imaginable and now wanted to be told by her, an expert on human customs, before his officers that even the soft-hearted humans would hang such a wretch. He was about to be disappointed, as she would not be accomplice to murdering a man, even if it was a Druchii, if she could somehow help it.   
  
“That depends on the crime.”, she replied in a pleasant tone, keeping her eyes down as not to let herself get distracted by any reaction or the fact that all of her instincts told her to flee the scene. “Insubordination is considered a serious crime in naval tradition, but it is hard to educate and train a capable officer, hence execution by sacrifice to the god of the seas is only the last resort reserved for the most egregious offences, like attacking or murdering a superior officer. Organizing or executing a mutiny, however, is grounds for court-martial.”   
  
She could hear a disapproving exhale from one of the Druchii and therefore had to force herself to remain calm and even in her demeanour. “An insubordinate officer is usually given the choice between being flogged or keel-hauled, the latter being more dangerous, but saving face. A dozen lashes are a usual punishment when being flogged. If the crime was committed against their own comrades, they might run the gauntlet like any crewmember.”  
  
“The gauntlet?” Ruvol perked up, suddenly interested.  
  
“Corporal punishment that involves the entire crew. The crew must form two rows on deck while the condemned walks between them in prescribed circuits while every and each crewmember hits them with ropes or anything else that would qualify as an improvised cat o' nine tails.” Pausing for a moment, Yalene had to mentally pat herself on the back for knowing several words in Eltharin for whip, although she still struggled to remember which word elves used for something simple like bread. “Any crew member that is suspected to hold back has to take the place of the condemned. In any case, it is considered a punishment that is supposed to save face for the condemned, so he keeps his honour and all of his failings are forgiven afterwards.”  
  
She didn’t tell him that the naval tradition was about the mildest version of the gauntlet and that whipping the condemned beforehand was commonplace. She also failed to tell him that the version of the gauntlet that the soldiers practised was much more brutal and always lethal, while the Imperial cavalry used stirrup straps from their saddles instead of whips or ropes. But then again, it was much more difficult to train a cavalryman or a naval officer than a soldier, the former being more educated and trained more extensively, hence the desire to preserve lives. All in all, Yalene was hopeful that the Druchii might opt for that supposed ‘honourable’ and non-lethal punishment for an officer that Ruvol considered dangerous, ambitious and popular. He would have a problem on his hands, but he should have thought about that before he tried to bait her to sully her hands with blood.   
  
Ruvol shot a glance to another stone-faced elf she had seen on the ship before. His head was bald, aside from the hair he needed for a corsair’s topknot. “What do you think, Nenkith?”  
  
There was a flicker of a cruel smile on the face of the elf named Nenkith, while he stroked his chin. His voice was unusually hoarse, as if from an injury, his tone grave and quiet. “I think that the humans steal traditions from us and do it badly. In the time after the Sundering, there was a tradition like she describes called Six Steps to Torment. The difference is that it was only twelve people participating and that the people had daggers, barbs, whips and in the end boiling oil. This is a punishment for insubordinate behaviour, but if the condemned survived, he was scarred, but his honour was restored.” Nenkith closed his eyes for a moment in quiet contemplation. “Viroges has stolen from the spoils of the crew, since he neither checked with me, you or Iruvan, it is a serious offence. The punishment would fit the crime, please Khaine and if he survives, his honour is above reproach.”  
  
That was the strangest kind of honour that Yalene had ever heard of, but it seemed to be good enough for the attending officers and captains, who nodded or mumbled some words in agreement, some more reluctantly than others. Apparently, Nenkith was meant to have some authority about all things traditional or ‘the old ways’. Yalene could also see the intrigue behind it – she had seen Iruvan leaving the Lady Vervain’s abode, suggesting that he had accompanied Iruvan to her place with the unappreciated gifts. That meant that Iruvan had known all along that ‘merchandise’ - to call it that even in her thoughts left a sour taste in her mouth – had been taken. Possibly with his knowledge, or even his blessing.   
  
This had all been a setup for this Viroges-person. Poor guy. At the very least, he was not to be killed outright. Viroges had been a thorn in Ruvol’s side for a while now, and the solution she had provided gave that rebellious officer a chance to survive his little scheme, despite Ruvol’s and Iruvan’s best efforts. At the very least, Ruvol Blackwater was now vexed. One less drop of blood on his hands had to be a disturbing thought for him, poor pirate.   
  
Ruvol pretended to ponder over that decision, before he nodded empathically. “See to it that this is done properly.”   
  
Nenkith nodded, and Ruvol dismissed his people. Only then, he made eye contact with her, a silent command to follow him. Yalene waited dutifully, fearing the things that were to come, and was slightly relieved to see Iruvan following the captain. She didn’t know why, but having company meant that she would at least escape any wrath Ruvol might have accumulated a little bit longer, and the longer he had time to cool his head, the better.   
  
When they arrived back at the cabin, Ruvol kept his face carefully neutral while Yalene tried to fade as much into the background as possible. Iruvan checked the door, twice, and then smiled. “That went well.”  
  
“Well?” Only when it was seemingly certain that they were not overheard, the captain rushed towards Yalene, and without a warning, grabbed her by the hips and vigorously swirled her around, his laughter only silenced when he was planting an energetic and unnecessarily loud kiss on her mouth. She was too stunned to resist, and still a little dizzy when he placed her down.   
  
What had just happened?  
  
“That didn’t go ‘well’. That was perfect!” Ruvol wore a boyish smile on his face and was clearly as giddy as a maiden in love for the first time. “And here I was, racking my brains over some way to kill that man without killing him outright, punishing him without punishing him too much and here you are with your human ways, human way of thinking and human customs and hand me the perfect solution on a silver platter. Who would have known that you people use the same punishment as we do?” He beamed a smile at her, his hands still on her shoulders as if to steady her. “Nobody in their right mind would call me unjust now. I even respected his ‘honour’.”  
  
He seemed cheerful as if he had just mentioned the most normal thing in the world with Iruvan nodding along, even smiling in a way that could be almost construed as fond. That they both would treat the life of a fellow being with casual cruelty was something she had come to expect, but that information was not safeguarded as closely as possible and that they both didn’t seem to be ashamed of showing her that they had some bond of friendship right before the eyes of a slave baffled her.   
  
“I still want to shoot a bolt in his face, though ...”, he started, but was interrupted by Iruvan.   
  
“That is unwise. You know as well as I do that sometimes, things are not so simple. Viroges’ family is too rich for comfort; if you harm him without bloody good cause, they will retaliate. Let him self-destruct and enjoy the sight. Who knows, he might not even survive the Six Steps to Torment.”  
  
For a moment, it looked like Ruvol wanted to pout, which Iruvan took as his cue to look pointedly at the state of the cabin, then to Yalene. That was quite understandable, because her research was visible by the open scrolls and books strewn on the ground, which was quite honestly looking like a mess. “It seems you have been busy. Care to share your findings?”  
  
For a moment, Yalene hesitated. She could just lie and would probably get away with it. That would keep the Lizardmen in the Southlands safe, it would keep their temple a secret and their treasures untouched. On the other hand, she had a feeling that an operation like this would take a lot of time, time that Ruvol Blackwater could not use for raiding. Spring was almost there, a time in which the coastal cities were traditionally even more vulnerable due to storms, and as far as she had understood, the Sea of Claws and the Bretonnian coast were the current targets for her captor, who had already described his plans to her. If she gave that information, she not only got them off her back to plan her escape, she might also put a halt to whatever plans they might have had for these waters, or the coasts of Tilea, Bretonnia, Westerland … or Nordland. What was more important? The Lizardmen’s temple or the lives of her countrymen, or fellow humans in general?  
  
After a long pause and a deep breath, Yalene began describing her lead in the Southlands.


End file.
